Another Hero: Season Four
by rainysfeverdreams
Summary: A Doyle-centric retelling of AtS Season Four. Part of my "Another Hero" series, which includes a prequel and the previous three seasons.
1. Deep Down

**TITLE: ANOTHER HERO: Season Four**

**SUMMARY:** A Doyle-centric retelling of the fourth season of Angel. This is part of my **Another Hero** series, which begins with an alternate version of "Hero," and is followed by **Another Hero: Seasons One, Two and Three**. It is strongly recommended that you read the series in order.

**A/N:** In honor of the upcoming 20 year anniversary of Angel (which will be this October), I felt like I should make every effort to continue Doyle's journey. In the interest of full disclosure, I don't have nearly as much time to dedicate to writing as I had in the past, therefore, I can't promise that chapters will come fast or be on any regular schedule, but as always, I will feel compelled to see my story through to the end, no matter how long it takes.

As with the previous seasons, chapters are labeled by the corresponding episode titles. My story has diverged quite heavily from the source material by this point, therefore, the "episodes" are maintained simply to orient you as to how my timeline matches up to the original events from the show.

Feel free to send all manner of comments and criticisms my way. And, most importantly, enjoy the read!

* * *

**1\. Deep Down**

The alley was quiet, dark and seemingly empty. But to the vampire, Angel, who observed from the fire escape above, there was the distinct hum of danger emanating from the murky shadows.

Something was _alive_ down there. Something that wasn't human. Some _thing_…

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

Angel required no oxygen, so the heavy sigh he directed over his shoulder was purely for effect. There, a slender brunette was huddled beside a much larger man, who held a crossbow lazily at his side as he, too, kept watch over the ominous alleyway below. The woman's dark eyes grew wide with apology. She lifted a bag of popcorn and extended it in Angel's direction.

"Sorry, did you want some?" Fred whispered loudly, assuming that the silent chastisement was due to her bogarting the snacks, rather than the fact that she had snacks to begin with.

"No." Angel replied tightly, his chin pointing ever-so-slightly toward the alley below. "Thanks."

Her mouth formed a silent O and her already-saucer-like eyes managed to go wider. She smiled apologetically as she finally caught Angel's meaning. Sealing the bag as quietly as possible—which was not at all quiet by most people's standards, most especially those with supernatural hearing—she placed it down beside her on the metal grating.

"We've been chilling here for hours." Gunn grumbled from the far side of the metal platform. "There ain't nothing down there that an exterminator couldn't slay. Face it, your intel was bogus. Just like last time…" He turned his head and muttered the rest of his sentence under his breath. "…and the time before that."

Now it was Gunn's turn to be on the receiving end of Angel's death glare, followed by a retort uttered through gritted fangs. "Maybe if we skipped the snacks and the running commentary, we'd actually find the demons we're looking for."

"Guys…" Fred said diplomatically holding up her hands in a peacemaking gesture between her boyfriend and her employer. "Do we really have to do this every time a lead doesn't pan out? Demon-hunting without the visions or, um, _clients_, takes time."

"Oh, it's taking time a'right." Gunn complained. "It's just the demons we're missing—aside from the one we bring with us."

"What do you want me to do, huh, Gunn? Raise the dead?" Angel asked facetiously. "Summon a Succubus from the depths of Hell? Would that make you happy?"

Fred dropped her peacemaker act, slumped against the brick wall behind her and reclaimed her bag of popcorn. "Here we go again." She mumbled to herself, even as Gunn leaned over her to wag a finger in Angel's face.

"Man, I just wanna be in on the action again!" Gunn insisted. "Lately it seems like we're the only ones getting left out. You got Wes' crew _cleaning_ _up_—just last week they busted a nest behind Mann's Chinese—vamps were picking off tourists, living fat and happy. That's exactly the kinda gig that would've been ours a few months ago."

Popping another kernel into her mouth, Fred's eyes volleyed from Gunn's perturbed face over to Angel's as if this were a tennis match.

"Doyle would've called if the Powers sent him a vision." The vampire retaliated and then promptly shut his mouth, as a furrowed look fell over his perpetually furrowed brow. "Wesley has a crew? What kind of crew?"

"The kind that actually kills demons for a living!" Gunn huffed in reply.

"Hey, hey—you guys mind keeping it down?" A voice protested from the alley below, interrupting the bickering between Angel and Gunn. "I'm trying to eat and all this arguing is gonna give me indigestion."

"Sorry!" Fred yelped out of habit, although she did have to wonder what sort of individual would be trying to enjoy a meal in the dark, smelly alley two stories below them.

The three occupants of the fire escape slowly leaned forward to peer over the metal railing. Roughly twenty feet below stood a menacing creature with giant teeth that resembled an upright stegosaurus; slung over his shoulder was the prone body of a slender man in what appeared to be a security guard's uniform. The demon shook its head at them in annoyance before readjusting his prey and lumbering deeper into the shadows.

"Okay, so maybe you were right this time." Gunn noted unnecessarily as he sized up the carnivorous creature.

"Can I get that in writing?" Angel quipped, gesturing over the side of the railing.

Brushing their thumbs against the sides of their noses in a sign of solidarity, the two heroes bolted into action in practiced unison. Angel leapt over the side of the railing with ease, while Gunn expertly rode the retractable ladder downward, hopping off when it reached its limit.

"Thank Satan they have something to kill tonight aside from each other." Fred mumbled to herself before once again tossing her munchies aside, wiping off her crumb-laden lips with the sleeve of her shirt, and hoisting her own crossbow over her shoulder. She galloped down the metal steps to join the fray.

It had been a _really_ _long_ summer.

* * *

"Hellooooooo!" Cordelia's jubilant voice echoed through the cavernous space of the Hyperion Hotel's apparently empty lobby. "Anybody home?" She asked into the continued silence, her thousand-watt smile dimming as she turned to address the discombobulated half-demon who was bumbling his way through the front doors, weighed down by multiple pieces of luggage. "We've been gone for months—was it too much to hope for a Welcome Home party?"

Gracelessly letting the bags tumble out of his arms, onto the floor and off the landing, Doyle let out a sigh and wiped his brow. "I'm sure they're just giving us some time to get settled in, yeah? Either that, or Angel forgot how to check his voicemail again."

"You think they've gotten a lot of work this summer?" Cordelia wondered, making her way to the empty reception area to assess the damage that had probably been done to her filing system. Everything looked to be in its right place on the surface at least. "Even without the Higher Powers steering the ship?"

"We do advertise." Doyle pointed out, brushing by her on the way to the water cooler, where he filled a tiny paper cup and thirstily gulped it down.

"Not unless someone remembered to pay the advertising bill." Cordelia said ruefully, lifting a stack of unopened bills with concern. "I'm thinking right now, we don't."

Doyle frowned in reply, guessing that she was probably right. "Well, the lights are still on, yeah? Things can't be that bad."

As if on cue, the front doors burst open giving way to three sludge-covered creatures who smelled like they'd spent the better part of the evening in a dumpster.

"Cordy!" Fred shrieked with excitement as soon as she lifted her head; her body language went from utterly exhausted to positively boisterous as she bounded toward the new arrivals. "Doyle! You're back! Look guys, Cordy and Doyle are back!"

"Hey, Fred. Aren't you perky for someone who obviously spent the night killing something slimy and disgusting." Cordelia replied with a hesitant smile, as she once-overed the other woman's sticky hair and grime-covered clothing.

"We just _really_ missed you guys, that's all." Fred said, her eyes conveying far more meaning than her words.

"Hey, guys." Doyle greeted Gunn and Angel, who followed behind Fred at a slightly more reserved clip. Holding his newly refilled paper cup in the air in a gesture of good cheer, he then chugged it down once again. "Looks like ya coulda used an extra hand. Sorry we didn't make that earlier flight."

"We had plenty of hands for tonight's slicing and dicing." Gunn answered, letting his dirty crossbow clatter onto the countertop. "And a few too many most other nights."

"You're just in time." Angel said with a warm grin—for him, it was the equivalent of bounding into the room as Fred had done. "Welcome back."

"Maybe we can save the hugs for later." Cordelia suggested with an apologetic smile to the group. "Not that I'm not thrilled to see you all, it's just—this blouse was kinda pricey."

"It's nice." Fred admired, flashing Cordelia an admiring grin rather than slathering her with demon guts.

"It's French." Cordelia explained, giving a twirl to show off the attractive designer garment. Her hair, which had grown well past her shoulders, swirled around, showing off the golden highlights threaded throughout.

"This one, too?" Gunn asked Doyle, as the two men bumped knuckles in official greeting.

Doyle chuckled, lifting the thick cable-knit fabric away from his body. "Just something I'd left at Ma's house. Can ya believe it still fits after all these years?"

"I can't." Cordelia mumbled under her breath, clearly not a fan of the unflattering cardigan Doyle had reclaimed from his youth.

"How is your mom?" Angel asked.

"She must've been so excited to finally meet Cordy!" Fred interjected with enthusiasm.

Cordelia snorted loudly while Doyle shrugged along with his reply. "You could say she started off a little on the overprotective side. Can't blame her, seeing how things ended up with me and Harry. It took 'er some time to warm up—"

"You mean _thaw_ _out_." Cordelia corrected. "If she'd gone to Sunnydale High, I wouldn't have been the reigning ice queen."

"She wasn't that bad." Doyle insisted in a rather unconvincing tone. "And my Nan more than made up for it—she loved ya right from the start. Knitted ya several sweaters, in fact."

"Yeah, well, thank goodness my talents include: charming elderly Irish-folk and making any type of fabric look appealing." Cordelia conceded. "By the end of the trip Doyle's family liked me more than _him_."

"That part is more or less accurate." Doyle agreed, tossing his paper cup into the wastebasket nearby. "Meet the daughter-slash-granddaughter they never had."

"That's so sweet." Fred enthused. "No wonder they wouldn't let you guys leave."

"Oh, it wasn't just the Doyle women who adored me." Cordelia added with a hoot of laughter, ignoring the sour expression that had washed over Doyle's face. "I got _three_ marriage proposals while I was there!"

All eyes turned curiously in Doyle's direction, while Cordelia continued to snicker smugly in the background. "Don't look at him—they all came from his cousins."

"Ah, ah—" Doyle interrupted holding up a correcting finger. "One of 'em was my uncle."

Gunn's face scrunched up with disapproval as he folded his arms over his chest. "That ain't right."

"Sounds like an interesting family." Fred giggled.

Angel tossed Doyle a sympathetic grin, but it was clear Doyle wasn't all that bothered by the myriad of marriage proposals his family bestowed upon his girlfriend. In truth, he looked almost a little proud.

"What about you guys?" Cordelia wondered, redirecting the flow of the conversation. Her eyes found their way to Fred who was most likely to give a detailed answer rather than resorting to a shrug or a grunt. "Did you stay busy this summer?"

"Well, you know how it is in 'the biz'…" Fred hedged, toying with the hem of her soiled shirt. "Sometimes you get the demons, sometimes the demons get you…"

"Sometimes you can't find the damn demons." Gunn finished Fred's thought.

"Yeah, mostly that last one." Fred agreed with a hapless shrug.

"It's not like Gunn's sources were all that helpful." Angel grumbled, picking the same fight that had ended hours earlier.

"I know you didn't just go there, bro." Gunn replied, ready to get right back into it. "Want me to pull out my scorecard and do some quick math?"

"Math's not really your strong suit." Angel dug in. "Remember what happened when I left you in charge of the phone bill?"

"Okay, stop right there." Cordelia reprimanded the two men with a wave of her hand and disappointed curve to her brow. "To your corners, Oscar and Felix. Wanna tell me what this is all about?"

"The group dynamic kinda shifted with you guys gone." Fred vented, slumping against the front counter. "I guess you could say 'three's a crowd,' or something like that."

Cordelia and Doyle were directing critical stares at both Gunn and Angel, who to each of their credit, looked rather ashamed by their behavior.

"Gunn has trouble with authority." Angel mumbled an excuse, his eyes drilling self-consciously into the floor.

"I have trouble with _Angel's_ authority." Gunn agreed. "You didn't see me and Wes butting heads when he was in charge."

Gunn's offhanded comment landed in the middle of the group like a grenade. Varying shades of awkwardness and dismay were painted across each face. Fred, in particular, looked stricken by the reminder that Wesley was no longer amongst them.

"Well, Doyle and I are back now." Cordelia stated flatly, breaking the silence as well as putting a punctuation on the uncomfortable topic of Wesley.

There was a collective sigh of relief as she breezily crossed to her desk and began sifting through the pile of papers that littered the work area. A small colorful rectangle caught her eye; she lifted the stiff piece of paper and waved it in the air, taking note of the other matching rectangles pinned to the wall nearby. "I see Lorne's been in touch." She flipped the card over and her face changed as she eyed the neatly printed words inked across the back. "Who's Fluffy?"

"That's still up for debate." Gunn replied with a glower.

"Lorne writes a lot." Fred explained with more than a hint of disappointment. "But forget about trying to get him on the phone. I think being a star has gone to his head."

"We should go visit him!" Doyle enthused with a hopeful grin. He took the postcard from Cordelia's hand and hungrily eyed the cover-photo, which featured the dazzling lights of the Vegas strip. "Remind him who his friends are and all that."

"Or maybe—" Cordelia rebutted, plucking the postcard out of Doyle's hand and placing it firmly down on the pile of paperwork from whence it came. "Vacation's over. Because Doyle-in-Vegas? Not something I wanna experience in this lifetime."

Doyle's smile swiftly turned upside down at Cordelia's declaration, but he let it go without argument.

"So, I guess we're all caught up." Angel said, subtly catching Doyle's eye. The reply was nothing more than a blink, but both men acknowledged that there was one more thing for them to discuss privately.

Connor. Gone, but not forgotten. Not by Angel, at least.

Angel had taken more than one trip to Sunnydale to see his son. No one knew. No one ever saw. Connor wasn't even Connor anymore, which hadn't been easy for Angel to digest. But, the boy was happy and healthy. He had a loving mother and a doting father. Most importantly, he was safe. Doyle would want to know that much, seeing how he'd risked everything to ensure that the child was protected and that Angel remained in service to the Powers of good.

"Oh yeah, all caught up on how you guys wasted an entire summer bickering like school girls." Cordelia remarked as she flipped open the general ledger and immediately slammed it shut again. "And now I'm all caught up on how much further in the red we are."

"Hey, look at the bright side." Doyle said encouragingly, as a smile once again spread across his lips, reaching all the way to his twinkling eyes. "That apocalypse we were all so worried about, still hasn't happened."

* * *

Hidden in the shadows of the Hyperion Hotel's front courtyard, a pair of blazing red eyes gleamed in the darkness, watching the silhouettes of the four warm bodies moving inside the walls of the hotel—four warm bodies and one walking corpse.

It wasn't the vampire that was of interest. The watchful demon with thermal vision, who had been surveilling the hotel for the last three months, had seen the vampire come and go. It had seen the vampire's two human comrades come and go. The two new heat signatures were the ones that burned with interest.

One of those was the half-demon seer and the other…

The pair of floating eyes blinked, and then turned away from the scene. Those eyes were attached to a charcoal colored body that was invisible in the pitch black of night, hence the demon's proclivity to only surface long after the sun had made its descent from the sky.

It scurried off, leaving the grand hotel where it stood housing its precious cargo. The demon had to return to the hidden place where the others waited. It had to proclaim the good news. It was his duty. It was his honor. If demons had such thing as duty and honor, which they generally did not. But when in service to the Master, it was, indeed, an honor to bring forth positive tidings.

Easily locating the mouth of the so-called "bat cave" nested in the hills of Griffith Park, the demon skulked through the shadows and burrowed its way to the secret chamber deep below the Earth's surface. It was there that the legions of acolytes were gathered, chanting their praise to the Master.

Slinking his way through the dense crowd of robed creatures who had come together to fill the claustrophobic air with a hum of demonic worship, he made it to the front of the chamber. There, upon a raised dais of dirt, sat a large, pale-skinned figure who tapped the razer-sharp talons of his left claw, a perpetually bored look upon his face. His enormous bulbous head lifted as the night watchman appeared at the foot of this makeshift throne.

The red-eyed demon hissed and crackled, his voice sounding like a popping campfire. This was the demon's language, unintelligible to human ears, but to the Master's most favored acolyte, the meaning was clear.

"Nah, you're not interrupting. To tell you the truth, I've never been a fan of this whole chanting thing. But it makes the minions feel good." Skip beckoned for the red-eyed creature to approach. "What've you got for me, Smokey?"

The night watchman's eyes gleamed with excitement as he hissed the news they had all been waiting for. News of the vessel's return.

"Oh, that's good." Skip commented, the hulking figure sitting upright in his throne. "That's _very_ good."

The obscure mouth attached to the fiery red eyes crackled an affirmative reply.

Skip's lips twisted and spread outward into a wide, malevolent grin. "Finally. It's time to do something other than chant." He rose from his station and raised his tree-trunk arms in the air signaling for silence and attention, both of which he received nearly instantaneously.

"Ladies, gentlemen and _other_… we've got ourselves an apocalypse!"


	2. Ground State

**2.** **Ground State**

Plucking the newspaper from the stack of freshly delivered mail, Doyle shook out its pages as he opened it wide. His eyes scanned the inky black and white pages, searching for any crime that sounded like it could have supernatural leanings.

There had to be something. There was always something.

"Here we go!" He announced, causing Cordelia to briefly pause from her rapid clacking against her computer keys. "John Doe found in the L.A. River."

Cordelia stared at him blankly, waiting for him to get to the punchline, but he looked up at her as if that was enough to spark her interest. "What's the cause of death?" She prompted. "Exsanguination? Missing organs? Unidentifiable animal bites?"

"Drowning." Doyle answered succinctly.

"So, what's the big deal?" She questioned, twisting her face into an unnatural position reserved only for Doyle's most tedious moments. "It was probably some wino who had a few too many, stumbled into the river and _glug, glug, glug_."

"I doubt it." Doyle argued, smudging his fingers with ink as he pressed them against the curious article. "Last I checked, there's no _water_ in the L.A. River—at least, not at the location where this guy was found."

"Okay… that _is_ weird." Cordelia finally conceded, swiveling her chair and popping out of her seat to walk toward the coffee maker. "I mean, why even call it a river?"

_Fwoosh!_

A brightly colored plastic dart soared through the air, plunking into the corkboard target hanging on one of the walls. The thrower of the dart was Gunn, who lined up his next shot while adding his two cents to the conversation, "I don't get why the big guys in the sky are still radio silent. Don't they know ya'll came back? Or do you have to send up some kinda bat signal to let 'em know we're ready for action?"

"They know." Doyle replied without concern as he flipped several pages ahead to the sports section.

"Maybe no one's in trouble." Fred suggested from the plush red couch at the front of the lobby, where she was curled with a laptop balanced on her knees. She lifted her head to flash a hopeful smile, and was on the receiving end of a series of doubting expressions ranging from skeptical to incredulous.

"And maybe Hell is having a snow day." Cordelia replied glibly, generously filling her mug before returning to her desk.

"That is possible." Angel remarked as he silently appeared in the doorway of his office. "Remember that time it snowed in Sunnydale?"

Cordelia opened her mouth to level a witty reply, but the shrill ring of the phone on her desk gave her pause. She eagerly leapt for the receiver, sloshing coffee onto her skirt as she moved. "Angel Investigations. We—oh, crap! –help the hopeless."

Closing the newspaper with a muted clap, Doyle tossed it across the counter in Angel's general direction. "There's still evil out there. That's for sure."

Angel frowned as his eyes glanced over the gruesome headlines on the front cover. "So, you're not… concerned?" He wondered, raising his eyes to connect with that of his best friend.

"About the lack o' brain-splitting migraines and loss o' motor functions?" Doyle responded with a nonchalant shrug. "They're the Higher Powers, man. If they wanna tell ya something, they'll tell ya… even if it isn't through me."

"Why wouldn't they go through you?" Fred wondered, although her eyes had already wandered back to her computer screen. "You're the messenger."

"You think you're finally off the hook?" Gunn wondered as another plastic dart soared through the air, hitting the target dead center. "You did save the world, right? Bullseye!"

Doyle didn't reply, but a small smile hovered at the edge of his lips. It was all Angel needed to see to understand why his friend was so calm and accepting of the unusual silence from above. He too felt a smile creep across his face as he relished the idea of his best friend having reached atonement. Finally being forgiven for his past discretions. Finally being _free_…

"We got one!" Cordelia's boisterous voice jolted Angel from his moment of awed reverie. "A good one—I'm talking real money here." She announced, ripping a piece of paper from her pad and rising from her seat to pass the message over to Angel. "Next time you question my advertising budget, remember this moment."

Fred tossed her laptop aside and bounded to the front counter to lean beside Gunn, who happily abandoned his dart-throwing in favor of the prospective job.

"The Axis of Pythia?" Angel questioned as he deciphered Cordelia's bubbly handwriting on the small square of paper.

"It was stolen from a vault at the Chandler Auction House and they'll pay _handsomely_ for it to be returned." Cordelia explained as she returned to her desk and rapidly tapped a few more keys, punctuated by the enter button. As her screen filled with information, her eyes went wide. "Wow. The value on this thing is estimated at thirty-three million."

"Dollars?!" Fred squeaked in disbelief.

"A'right! Who needs the PTB—we're about to make bank!" Gunn enthused, circling behind Angel to read Cordelia's notes over his shoulder.

"Hate to shatter your dreams of private jets and massive bling." Cordelia called from her computer. "But they won't be paying us that much to retrieve their stolen merchandise. Still, thirty-three _thousand_ seems like a pretty fair price for our services."

"This Axis thing must be pretty special." Fred mused, returning to her abandoned laptop to do some web searching of her own. "Do we think there's some kind of mystical aspect?"

"If the Auction House is calling us instead o' the cops, I'd say it's a safe bet." Doyle confirmed.

"We'd better find out what it does." Angel instructed, folding up the note, and gesturing for Gunn and Doyle to join him in his office, where rows of ancient books still lined the shelves. "And start making a list of who'd want it."

* * *

"It was forged from the tripod of the Delphic oracle." Angel slammed a drawing of the Axis of Pythia onto the wooden desktop before him. "Said to have been imbued with many mystical qualities, one of which is finding souls or entities across dimensions."

The well-coiffed brunette seated behind the wide piece of furniture leaned forward, scanning the detailed rendering with veiled interest. "Isn't ringing a bell… why come to me?"

"Because you're _you_." Doyle piped up from where he leaned against the office doorframe, casting furtive glances over his shoulder. He hated this office—hated the whole building, not to mention the people inside it. The whole place made his skin crawl. Today more than ever, since he felt the stares of passersby in a most unsettling manner.

And then there was that other thing—the familiar scent that was filling his nostrils. A scent that did not match the location, nor the occupant of the desk...

"What happened to the pleasantries?" Lilah Morgan asked, with a feigned sense of offense. "Shouldn't you be congratulating me on my promotion before accusing me of grand larceny?"

"Congratulations." Angel replied flatly.

"Who hadda die to make it happen?" Doyle mouthed off, tossing a furtive glance over his left shoulder as he felt yet another pair of eyes staring in his direction. This time it was a mail clerk.

"My boss." Lilah deadpanned. "He lost his head during a meeting. Very unfortunate."

"Now it's your head on the chopping block." Angel pointed out, hovering over the slender woman in an imposing manner. "But I'm the one holding the axe."

Lilah smirked up at Angel, showing no sign of fear. She leaned back in her chair and turned up her palms to show they were empty. "I don't have what you're looking for."

"I don't believe you." Angel accused. "This seems right up your alley. Something you could use to find a soul you let slip right through your fingers."

Lilah sneered up at Angel as she rolled her chair back a few feet, and turned her eyes to glance out the sizable picture window that had once belonged to Linwood.

"We get all the current listings for Chandler's Auction House—if we wanted the Axis, we would've just bought it." Lilah said coolly; her eyes rolled upward to the ceiling and then finally landed back on Angel's face. "Whatever you may think of us—we aren't thieves."

"Just kidnappers, murderers and _liars_." Doyle muttered sarcastically. "Two minutes ago you'd never even heard o' the Axis."

"Oops." Lilah answered unapologetically. "Guess I have heard of it."

From the corner of her desk, a small crystalline paperweight began to emanate a soft glowing light, which drew Doyle's curious eyes in its direction. His view was swiftly obscured by Lilah's well-manicured hand, which she casually placed over the peculiar object.

"So, you're telling me you have no idea where the Axis is." Angel continued his interrogation, taking no interest in Lilah's office décor. He placed his balled up fists on the edge of Lilah's desk as if he was a cop and she a suspect—Lilah, however, refused to play her role.

"What I'm telling you is that I don't _care_. Tracking down your lost little lamb in the bowels of Hell would be an utter waste of my time." She smarmed, choosing the words she thought would wound Angel the deepest. Of course, she had no idea that Connor had never been sent to Quor'toth, which made her empty declaration far more comforting than cutting. She removed her hand from atop the paperweight once it had gone dark. "If he isn't already dead, he will be soon. Frankly, the Axis of Pythia is nothing but a glorified peephole and isn't worth the tripod it was forged from. Now if it could—oh, I don't know—_manipulate_ _time _that would be another story."

As she added the final words, her head swiveled toward Doyle in a reptilian manner and once again, he was on the receiving end of a very uncomfortable stare. Was she sizing him up? Or was she simply reacting to his own curious glances—the ones he couldn't help but give her the moment he'd walked in and smelled _Wesley_ all over her.

Wesley and Lilah. They weren't just sharing company anymore. They were sharing a bed. And there wasn't a demon in that office who didn't know it.

"You know what, Lilah? I _believe_ that you don't have the Axis." Angel said evenly, reading her smug attitude as only an expert in Lilah Morgan could. "But I'm also pretty damn sure you know who does."

The widening of Lilah's eyes was barely perceptible, but the sneer that played across her lips was impossible to miss. "I would never sell out a client." She declared, uncrossing and then re-crossing her legs in the opposite direction as she slowly reached for a post-it note. "Lucky for you, the guy who has it is an ex-client suspected of appropriating Wolfram & Hart property for his own personal use…"

* * *

"Elliot Irwin?" The slim brunette addressed a slightly overweight, middle-aged man in a poorly tailored suit as he made his way up the front steps of his luxury high-rise. "Of Irwin Shipping and Trading?"

The man stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face the silhouetted female who stood on the sidewalk in much better fitting attire. He held his breath until she took a step closer, allowing the light to illuminate her unfamiliar, yet beautiful face. "Who's asking?" He wondered, his left hand reflexively gripping his conspicuous briefcase tighter. "You're one of those lawyers, aren't you?"

"Oh, please." Cordelia scoffed, rolling her eyes at the thought of being mistaken for an employee of Wolfram & Hart. "With hair like this I think it's obvious I'm on the side of the angels—well, one Angel, anyway."

"Danger comes in pretty packages." Elliot countered, his white-knuckled grip on the briefcase remaining steadfast. "What do you want?"

"Squirrelly much?" Cordelia retorted, taking another step toward the dumpy millionaire and ascending the steps to look him directly in the eye. "Even if I didn't already know you'd stolen a priceless mystical artifact, I'd know you were hiding something in that knock-off Burberry briefcase."

"Do I look like Thomas Crown to you?" Elliot sneered without missing a beat. "I don't know what you're talking about, lady, but I think you should remove yourself from my property before I call the authorities."

"That's okay, I can call them myself." Cordelia said nonchalantly, sliding her cell phone out of her back pocket, flipping it open and dialing the first two numbers of the sequence that would bring the LAPD to Mr. Irwin's door. "I'm only interested in the Axis of Pythia, but I bet the feds will find a load of interesting stuff up in that vault of yours, which they'll be able to search when I give them probable cause—be honest, how much of it is lacking a proper paper trail?"

"Gwen sent you." Elliot glowered, dropping his phony air of innocence. "I knew I shouldn't have trusted that freak! That backstabbing c—"

"Uh, uh, uh… if I were you, I'd watch my language." A male voice interrupted from the bottom of the steps. "Cordelia there's got a temper."

Elliot's head snapped to the right to see a tall, dark-haired figure in a long, black trench coat loitering on the sidewalk nearby. Behind him stood another male figure, much shorter in stature, and across the street a conspicuous white truck sat idling, with two shadowed figures visible inside.

"Yeah, bud." The shorter man on the sidewalk spoke up. "Ya wouldn't like 'er when she's angry."

Cordelia merely arched one of her perfectly plucked brows in silent warning.

"Who are you people?" Elliot stuttered, taking in the small gang of individuals who'd all but surrounded him. "What do you want from me?"

"The Axis of Pythia! Duh! Weren't you listening?" Cordelia scolded, wrenching Elliot's briefcase out of his vise-like grip. She descended the small flight of steps, falling into step with the two men as they turned to cross the street.

"We're the good guys." The taller of the two shadowy figures spoke as the group retreated into the darkness beyond the street lamps. "And we'll make sure this stolen merchandise goes right back where it belongs."

* * *

"Our basement?" Fred inquired, leaning over the railing that overlooked the makeshift training room beneath the Hyperion Lobby. "Isn't this, I dunno… kinda like stealing it for ourselves?"

"We can't bring it back to the Auction House." Angel stated matter-of-factly as he placed the shiny metal arch affixed to its marble base into the caged area in the corner of the room. "And, unfortunately, it's indestructible."

"Do I gotta remind ya'll just how much we need this payday?" Gunn asked, leaning his weight on the railing beside Fred. "We got mouths to feed and all that. Cordy, ain't that your cue?"

"Not this time." Cordelia demurred, pantomiming a washing hands gesture. "If someone uses that magic lojack thingie to find Connor, then we'll have a lot bigger problems than empty stomachs and a mountain of bills—Hey, what about a troll hammer? Do you think that would smash it?"

"Do we have a troll hammer?" Angel asked indifferently.

"Well, no. But, I'm pretty sure there's one back in Sunnydale." Cordelia answered. "I could call Willow—oh wait. No, I can't because she's still on her 'I-turned-evil-and-almost-destroyed-the-world-sabbatical.' Maybe I could try Anya, assuming she's not a vengeance demon again…?"

Doyle cringed at the never-ending list of apocalyptic problems they could find back in Sunnydale. It was a wonder Cordelia had made it out of that place alive and with little in the way of permanent damage. In his opinion, L.A. was still too close to the Hellmouth for comfort. "Ah, that's a'right, Princess… generally speakin', when something's indestructible that includes troll hammers."

"I think we're done here." Angel declared, making a show of locking the cage before turning his eyes back on the rest of his team. His prolonged stare was as serious as a proverbial heart attack. "There are others, outside of this room, who know Connor's not in Quor'toth; spell or no spell, that thing is their golden ticket."

Angel's eyes circled over the myriad of faces in the group. As they passed over Gunn, the larger man responded, "Lorne wouldn't do Connor like that. No matter how big his head is nowadays."

Angel didn't answer, but it was clear he hadn't been referring to Connor's former demon-babysitter. The vampire's eyes kept moving, grazing over Cordelia next.

"Nixa and Groo don't know Quor'toth from Kansas. Frankly, I pity the fool who'd try and pump those two for information." She said breezily. "Not to mention that Doyle and I are their supreme leaders."

Again, Angel didn't respond. Nixa and Groo weren't of much concern. They hadn't known Connor well enough to question his absence once the masking spell took hold.

Next in the loop was Doyle, who shrugged noncommittally as he spoke. "If Penny was gonna sell us out, he'd have done it already."

While it wasn't the most convincing of arguments, Penny had put his own life on the line to save the baby, knowing full well that Wolfram & Hart would've paid handsomely for the opposite. That certainly counted for something.

Angel remained silent as his final resting glare landed and stayed on Fred. She shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his gaze.

"Wesley would never hurt Connor. Not on purpose." She defended Wesley's honor while also admitting her own guilt in telling him the truth. "He deserved to know." She went on, stiffening her backbone even as Angel's features hardened against her. "He nearly died and he didn't deserve to think Connor was… B-but, it doesn't matter. He doesn't know any more than we do, which is nothing aside from the fact that Connor's safe."

"That's something." Angel responded.

"Only our number one threat." Doyle muttered under his breath.

Fred looked taken aback as her eyes swung in Doyle's direction. She had expected a comment like that from Angel, perhaps, but not from his generally more diplomatic counterpart. "I wouldn't call Wesley a _threat_."

"He meant Lilah." Angel answered succinctly.

"But what does she have to do with…?" Fred asked bewilderedly, her eyes darting from one demon to the other. Although neither Angel nor Doyle's expressions changed, Fred succeeded in answering her own question. Her cheeks began to turn pink with realization. "Oh."

"Ew." Cordelia added, her face twisting into a look of utter disgust as she too put two and two together.

"That settles that, yeah? The Axis stays under lock and key and we defer as many o' those bills as we can." Doyle summed up, taking the focus off Wesley's love life and bringing the topic of the Axis to an official close. "There'll be other jobs."

"Will there?" Gunn retorted, his face masked in disappointment and focused solely on Doyle. "Be straight with us, D. The Powers cut us off for good?"

"Of course not!" Cordelia insisted vehemently, answering for Doyle as she gestured in Angel's direction, as if Gunn had mistakenly forgot their boss was present. "Do I have to remind you about a little something called the Shanshu Prophecy? The mission isn't over until Angel is human." She continued her brief monologue, missing the subtle, silent exchange between the prophesied vampire with a soul and his possibly-former-messenger. "Take it from someone who knows—when the PTB have something to send, then _boy howdy_! They'll send it."

"And if they don't?" Gunn persisted. "What do we do then? How do we know we're on-mission? Fighting the right demons, saving the right souls?"

"We don't." Angel interjected, his voice laced with authority and purpose, although he was the one with the most to lose if they weren't on the "right" mission anymore. "We fight _all_ the demons; we save _all_ the souls. Because we're the good guys and that's what we do."


	3. The House Always Wins, Part 1

**3\. ****The House Always Wins, Part I**

Doyle admired the exterior of his Spanish-style apartment building, nestled in its Silver Lake home. He loved walking up the front path, anticipating the warm welcome he'd receive on the other side of the arched front door. Long gone were the days when he'd trudge back to his dumpy downtown apartment and spend the night drinking alone in darkness. These days, there was always a light on waiting for him.

There was always _somebody_ waiting.

"Looks like my stop." Doyle announced, turning to his vampire compatriot as he idly rubbed at his lower spine. "And it couldn't come a moment too soon—y'know, some folks complain about the lack o' walking in L.A., but I for one, am a big fan of driving."

"We'll take the car tomorrow night." Angel promised, with a dry chuckle. "I'm sure the other side of town could use some patrolling. Maybe even the Valley."

"Oh, thank God. Don't think I could take another tour through the East side sewer tunnels." Doyle admitted, backpedaling a few steps so he'd be closer to the front entrance of his building. "Well, ah… g'night, man. See ya tomorrow."

Angel nodded his own farewell and allowed Doyle to continue his retreat and then fully turn away before finally speaking. "You're really not going to say anything?"

"What am I supposed to say?" Doyle wondered, halting in his tracks but not bothering to turn back around.

"Start with _why_." Angel suggested.

"I think he's on second base." Doyle joked, taking a cue from the old Abbot and Costello routine to deflect the question. He finally did slowly turn back to face his friend only to be met with Angel's steely gaze.

"No, that's 'What.'" Angel corrected. "I asked why. And I can afford to wait for the answer."

"Only 'til sunrise." Doyle countered as his eyes unconsciously raised to the starry sky above. A moment later he let out a heavy sigh of resignation. "Why _what_ exactly? Why haven't I had any visions in months? Or why haven't I felt like chattin' ya up about it?"

"Let's start with the second one." Angel replied simply.

"Well, it's kinda an awkward topic, don'tcha think?" Doyle confessed. "I was sent by the Higher Powers to be your guide on your journey to redemption and, sorry bud, looks like my contract's up—guess I've just been feeling a touch guilty, that's all… on account o' the fact that I actually feel pretty _good_."

"You did what you were sent here to do." Angel said, keeping his tone completely neutral. "You saved my son—you may have saved the entire world, based on the things you've told me. It makes sense that the Powers would release you—you deserve it. You deserve to enjoy it."

"Do I?" Doyle questioned, his brows coming together with skeptical thought. "You've saved the world a few dozen times yourself and you're still a slave to the mission."

Angel shuffled, dropping his head and shoving his hands in the pockets of his long coat. "That's different."

"Well, it shouldn't be." Doyle refuted. "If I'm off the hook, why should you still be left dangling?"

"Doyle…" Angel interjected patiently. "This isn't about me. This is about you. You've done your job, done your time. Maybe it's time you and Cordy… I don't know. Settle down. Start living a normal life. Stop worrying about me."

The half-demon's jaw dropped open with shock and horror. "Are ya firing us?!"

"What?" Angel asked, taking his turn to be shocked. "No, of course I'm not—Doyle, all I'm saying is—"

"I heard ya the first time." Doyle stated, waving his hand to silence his best friend. "Consider the offer rejected, yeah? Whether I have visions or not, you're not getting rid o' me. We're seein' this thing through to the end, you and me. And that doesn't come 'til your heart is beating in your chest and you're halfway to that old age home we talked about."

Angel swallowed, the only dent in his otherwise perpetually stoic exterior. He was obviously moved by the sentiment and it caused an involuntary smile to flicker to his perpetually stiff upper lip. "You don't wanna go check with Cordy first?" He asked in a slightly huskier voice than normal, his eyes flickering to the front door of Doyle and Cordelia's apartment.

"You and I both know she'd say the same, and not half as polite as I just did." Doyle promised, his nerves having evaporated now that he'd spoken his peace. "You're stuck with both of us 'til the hopefully-not-so-bitter end."

The smile that lifted Angel's mouth made its way to his eyes and it seemed as though the two friends would hug it out, when a whoosh of air and a vibrant brunette bounding out the front door of Doyle's apartment demanded their sudden attention.

"I quit!" Cordelia shouted, storming toward the pair of demons while waving a palm-sized electronic device in the air. "You forgot your cellphone. _Again_. Seriously, Doyle, I am _done_ with being your keeper. Next time I'll crazy glue it to your leather jacket!"

"I'd really rather ya didn't." Doyle responded, reaching out to calmly take the phone from his decidedly uncalm girlfriend. "Ah… were ya trying to reach me?"

"No, I wasn't trying to reach you. Why would I try to reach you when I could see your phone was sitting on the coffee table?!" Cordelia scolded, her empty hands now perched sassily on her hips. "And, it's not like Angel even remembers he _has_ a cell phone. You two are beyond hopeless."

"Cordelia." Angel addressed her, with a mildly beleaguered look. "Did something happen?"

"I don't know! Maybe!" Cordelia cried with frustration, gesturing wildly at the flip phone that was now in Doyle's hand. "It's Lorne. I think he's in trouble."

"What kinda trouble?" Doyle asked, his concern rapidly rising.

"I don't _know_." Cordelia repeated, hugging herself protectively. "Penny called—he sounded distracted, probably by all the prostitutes and the gambling and the _neon_. He wasn't all that forthcoming with the details. All I know is that Lorne needs our help."

"Where is he right now?" Angel demanded, ready to run to any corner of the city for a friend in need.

Cordelia rolled her eyes, and let them land warily on Doyle. "Didn't you hear the part about all the neon?"

* * *

_WELCOME TO FABULOUS LAS VEGAS_

The world famous Las Vegas sign flashed in all its neon glory with hundreds more signs flashing in the foreground in all manner of colors and shapes. _The Stardust,_ _Circus Circus, The Flamingo, Caesar's Palace, The Tropicana_.

This was Sin City. The actual city that never sleeps; unlike New York, where the bars eventually do close in the wee morning hours, the casinos along the Vegas strip are 24/7. And there was always some poor schlub, kept awake by the potent stream of oxygen being pumped through the hotel ventilation systems, forced to spend every last dime he or she had on an unforgiving slot machine or a merciless card dealer.

"Look! There he is!" Fred called excitedly pointing to one of the many billboards flashing brightly as Angel drove his convertible down the center of the strip. She and Gunn were seated in the back of the car, with Cordy and Doyle nestled into Angel's passenger seat together. All head's turned eagerly toward the promise of their friend's familiar demon face… which turned out to be plastered fifty feet high and surrounded by neon lights. "Seventeenth straight week, the incomparable song stylings of Lorne… the green velvet fog?"

"He's playing the Tropicana?" Doyle asked, blinking up at Lorne's brightly lit face in disbelief. "That's a bit more high profile than I imagined."

"Viva Las Vegas." Cordelia replied dryly, shaking her head in dismay.

Angel pulled the car into the front entryway of the Casino directly across the street, and several prim and proper bellhops streamed toward the vehicle to open the many doors.

"The Excalibur?" Gunn questioned, looking up at the gaudy Vegas-style medieval signage as he stepped out of the convertible and offered a hand to Fred who disembarked behind him. "You couldn't have picked something a little more hip than Vegas-Pylea?"

"It's convenient." Angel argued defensively, and then mumbled the more decisive truth. "And there was a two-for-one discount on rooms."

"See, this seems like the sorta establishment that would embrace 'the green velvet fog.'" Doyle quipped, linking arms with Cordelia who was staring starry-eyed up at the rows of twinkle lights lining every façade. "I mean, the Blue Man Group plays right next door. I have it on good authority that one o' those guys is a demon."

"Two, actually." Angel corrected.

"I think it's charming." Fred piped up with forced enthusiasm, as her eyes followed a group of, obviously, intoxicated men stumbling out the front doors of The Excalibur, each in possession of rather large, greasy drumsticks and beverages in what appeared to be fishbowls. "As long as they don't throw me in a burlap sack and call me a cow."

The group proceeded through the front doors and was immediately presented with an oversized poster, boasting a row of bare chested men with impeccable abs.

_Thunder From Down Under. Seven nights a week. Only at The Excalibur._

"I'm starting to see the charm." Cordelia agreed with an approving raise of her brow.

"Lorne has a nine o'clock show." Angel announced, opening his jacket, procuring his wallet and silently passing a credit card over to Cordelia with a stern, unspoken warning that she wasn't to use it for anything aside from the hotel rooms. "You guys should check in here. I'll swing by the Tropicana's box office and do a pre-sweep of the area, see if there's anything suspicious right off the bat."

Cordelia, Gunn and Fred each nodded their agreement to this plan, as Angel turned and exited the grand double doors they'd so recently entered, his jacket flowing behind him as it often did.

As the group began moving toward the crowd of people near the check-in counter for the hotel, Doyle conspicuously gravitated in the opposite direction, where the cacophony of slot machine noises was nearly deafening. "I've, ah… got some business over at Caesar's." He said coyly, when Cordelia came up short, giving him a questioning once over. "Can I meet ya at the show?"

"Not so fast." Cordelia objected without missing a beat, holding her hands up in a time-out sign. "You think you can just go off and do God-knows-what in the town they call 'Sin City'? We aren't here to blow our paychecks, Doyle—we're here to save Lorne. Or has the smell of money and poker chips clouded your brain already?"

"My business is with Penny." Doyle placated her with a sincere explanation. "Y'know, the guy who tipped us off that Lorne was in trouble in the first place. I figure he knows more than he let on over the phone—he's a paranoid individual, y'know."

"Oh." Cordelia said, taken aback by the very rational answer she hadn't expected to receive. "Well, sure, that makes sense. I'll just check us in real quick and come with."

"We don't have time for all that." Doyle answered sensibly, gesturing to the lengthy line of people waiting in front of where Fred and Gunn now stood at the end. He flashed her his typical good-guy-Doyle-grin and leaned forward to give her cheek a quick peck. "I won't be long. See ya later, darlin'."

Doyle's feet pedaled him rapidly away from Cordelia and onto the casino floor, before she could open her mouth to object again. As he receded into the smoke-filled crowd, Cordelia couldn't shake her niggling feeling of concern.

* * *

Cordelia watched the dark-haired figure slip between the closing doors of the Tropicana's Main Theatre and breathlessly rush down the aisle to take his vacant seat before the show began.

The man was not Doyle. Unlike this stranger who had made it to the show on-time only by the skin of his teeth, Doyle was nowhere to be found.

The doors were now 100% closed and the seat beside Cordelia remained disappointingly Doyle-free.

Whipping her head to her left, she glared at the vampire seated on her other side. "Did he say what the hold up was?" She demanded moodily, wishing she had been the one to speak to Doyle on the phone rather than Angel. She would have known if something sounded _off_ in Doyle's voice. She wouldn't have simply accepted that he was 'running behind' without good reason—and, really, there was no _good_ reason she could think of. Only bad ones. Lots and lots of bad ones.

"He didn't." Angel answered distractedly, his eyes trained on the empty stage before them. He was taking it all in; looking for any sign that something wasn't right. Thus far, nothing seemed out of the ordinary… at least, nothing that wasn't considered completely ordinary for Vegas.

"Of course, he didn't." Cordelia grumbled, testily drumming her fingers against the rim of the table in front of their front-row booth. "It wouldn't have killed you to ask, considering you're already dead."

"I'm sure he'll be here any minute." Angel added, still not paying her concerns much attention. They were, after all, on a mission to save a friend.

"The show is going to start in _less_ than a minute." Cordelia pointed out, throwing her hands in the air as she vented her frustrations. "This is exactly what I was afraid of. We've barely dipped a toe into this Ocean of Depravity and already Doyle's been cast out to sea. Never to be seen or heard from again."

Angel finally turned to give Cordelia his undivided attention; a slightly baffled expression was plastered across his face. His eyes slowly continued past her. "Hey, Doyle."

Cordelia swiveled her body around in the booth to inspect the previously empty seat at her right and sure enough, it was now occupied by the garishly-dressed Irishman, better known as her boyfriend.

"Hey, guys. Did I miss anything?" He greeted them with an impish twinkle in his eye and a distracting flash of the dimple. Cordelia could identify his tells from a mile away—he was definitely hiding something.

"Where've you been?" She demanded just as the house lights began to dim around them.

Doyle opened his mouth to reply, but his voice was rapidly drowned out by the swelling introductory music. He settled for a gesture that translated into "I'll tell you later" and then settled into his seat to take in the spectacle.

As a myriad of feathers and glitter clamored onto the stage, all attached to a handful of some rather _unique_ looking showgirls, Cordelia was forced to refocus her attention. Her worries about Doyle running amok in Vegas were replaced by the song stylings of the one, the only…

_"IIIIIIIIt's not easy being green…"_

* * *

"I know it's a lot o' green." Doyle admitted, plunking down his beaten up duffel bag full of money. "Good thing ya take cash, right?"

The stocky man behind the counter guffawed as he chewed on the end of his cigar. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

"Ah..." Doyle answered uncertainly. "I guess that's generally where a bear would go, yeah."

The guy continued to eyeball both Doyle and his money, "Are you intoxicated? I'm supposed to ask if you're intoxicated."

"I'm not," Doyle answered, wishing just a little bit that he was. After all, his life's savings—modest as it was—was sprawled across the countertop.

Taking a generous puff of his cigar and then blowing a rather impressive O into the empty air, the man began to poke around at the bills inside the bag. "So… you're sure about this."

"As I'll ever be, man." Doyle insisted.

"Must be feeling lucky." The man guessed, with a derisive smirk. Odds were good that this man had seen many men and women who _felt_ lucky.

"I am lucky." Doyle agreed, yanking on his collar to get a little more air beneath his trusty brown leather jacket. He really should have removed it before entering this stuffy little rectangle. At this point, he was stifling.

"Well, lucky or not—there's no such thing as a refund." The man dropped some of his tough-guy demeanor, stubbed out his cigar in a nearby ashtray and hoisted the bag off the counter. "I'm gonna have to put it through the counter. Protocol."

Doyle shrugged as if the man's mistrust didn't bother him. Why should it? In a town like Vegas, it was par for the course. Full of guys trying to beat the house one way or another.

What _did_ bother him was that he had to tip-toe around Cordelia in order to make this particular transaction; not to mention the transactions he'd made the prior evening. It was no easy feat to lie to her and sneak around behind her back. In fact, he knew she was more than a little suspicious already. Which is why he'd feigned exhaustion after Lorne's show the previous evening—it was certainly easier to hide the truth from Cordelia with his eyes closed, his mouth shut and a comforter pulled over his head.

Of course, he hadn't actually slept a wink. How could he? Not with all he had at stake.

The not-sleeping bit turned out to be fortuitous. It certainly helped with his continued avoidance of Cordelia—he was awake before dawn and out the door before she even stirred.

That's how he ended up in this claustrophobic room, choking on cigar smoke before he'd even eaten breakfast.

A telltale buzzing from his breast pocket signaled that someone on the AI Team had noticed his absence. More than likely it was Cordelia, none-too-happy to find Doyle M.I.A. with nothing but a barely legible note on his pillow.

It didn't matter. The lying and sneaking around was only temporary. Eventually, she would know the truth and she would be happy that he did what he did.

At least… he hoped she would be happy.

_She would be happy, right?_

"Okay, it's all here." The stocky man announced as the mechanical counter spit out the last of Doyle's bills into neat little piles. He crossed back to the front counter, picked up a rubber stamp, smashed it into a red ink pad and then slammed it down across the center of a slip of paper, which he then pushed in Doyle's direction.

"Have a nice day."

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Fred asked, staring skeptically down at her "disguise," which consisted of very little fabric and a generous supply of green body paint. "I don't really look like the Vegas showgirl type."

"You look the type to me." Gunn replied admiringly. "Better actually."

"Oh, you." Fred cooed, smiling back at her boyfriend and leaning in for a sweet kiss, which left some green smudges on Gunn's chin and some not-so-green patches on Fred's.

"Now's not the time to get all cutesy, you two." Cordelia scolded, completing the task of smothering her own long legs with the same shade of Kermit-green. "I'd better fix that." She took a dollop of green goop and smeared it across the patch of Fred's visible skin as Gunn wiped repeatedly at his own chin.

The two female members of the Angel Investigations team were both decked out in "Lornette" attire—as in, one of the many showgirls who adorned the stage, while Lorne performed. Truth be told, body paint aside, Cordelia kind of liked the look and feel of the skimpy, glittery costume. What she liked less was the thought of Angel and Doyle staking out the casino floor in search of the owner of the joint, who dabbled in stealing people's destinies.

"A'ight, let's go over the plan one more time." Gunn said, rubbing the last smudges of green paint from his cheek and turning to face his costumed teammates. "Y'all find Lorne and get the hell outta dodge as quick as your skinny legs can carry you; keep him on the D.L. 'til Angel and I take out this DeMarco dude and smash his future-stealing crystal ball to pieces."

"And Doyle." Cordelia added.

"Huh?" Gunn asked dumbly.

"You and Angel _and Doyle_ will be doing the finding and smashing." Cordelia pointed out.

"Yeah, if he's back in time." Gunn answered without thinking, causing Fred's eyes to widen in alarm.

"I think you're mistaken, Charles." She said warningly. "Doyle is with Angel _right now_. They're both looking for DeMarco _together_. And then later we'll all be rendezvousing back at the Excalibur, to celebrate a job well done—assuming that the job was well done, which I really hope it will be."

"Oh, yeah. Right." Gunn agreed, clearly overcompensating for his moment of thoughtlessness. He laughed off his apparent forgetfulness, but Cordelia noticed that he also couldn't meet her laser-sharp gaze. "That's the plan—ya'll ready to get your undercover on?"

"I'm ready!" Fred said eagerly, hoping to segue back into the matter at hand. Her puppy-dog eyes focused on Cordelia's green-toned expression with a hopeful look. "You good, Cordy?"

Cordelia's brow wrinkled with doubt as she noted the caginess of her two teammates, neither of whom was terribly skilled in the art of lying. The two of them appeared to be covering for Doyle's current activities, which, as it seemed, was _not_ actually assisting Angel with the takedown of an evil casino owner.

"That's the plan?" She asked unenthusiastically, giving Gunn the hairy eyeball. "Nothing else you think I should know? Like say, the current whereabouts of a certain wardrobe-challenged half-demon with a renowned gambling problem? Let me guess, he's already knee-deep in IOUs over at Caesar's!"

"Doyle?" Gunn said the name as if it couldn't possibly match the description Cordelia had just given. "Nah, he wouldn't risk his future like that."

"Lots of futures!" Fred chirped, still looking like a deer in headlights. "All those poor future-less people who had their destinies stolen. That's what Charles means by risking the future."

"I know why we're here; unlike _some_ half-people, my priorities are straighter than the equator." Cordelia snapped, smoothing down the front of her showgirl garment. "If Doyle's out there losing everything and some loan shark breaks his kneecaps, then it serves him right! We don't have time to rescue him. We came here to save Lorne and that's what we're gonna do!"

Fred and Gunn exchanged a bewildered look as Cordelia twirled sharply on her heel and pushed open the closet door that had served as a makeshift changing room. "Fred? Are you ready or what?!"


	4. The House Always Wins, Part 2

**4\. ****The House Always Wins, Part II**

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

"Coming!" Cordelia shouted, as she carefully stepped out of the shower. She hastily wrung out her golden brown locks before wrapping them in a plush terry cloth towel. Finally, she grabbed the matching white robe hanging behind the bathroom door and secured its tie snugly around her slender waist. Moments later, she padded through the modest-sized hotel room and opened the front door. "Don't tell me you lost your key on top of everything else—."

She had anticipated finding her very late and _supremely apologetic _significant other waiting in the hallway, having failed to show up for the post-mission rendezvous. Sure, he had called and told Angel he was running late, so they knew he wasn't, in fact, dead in a ditch somewhere on the mean streets of Vegas. But, that was little solace at this point. After nearly two full days in Sin City, Cordelia could barely count the moments when Doyle had been in her sights. There was always some errand to run or some source to meet or some casino floor for him to stake out. He'd barely even slept, which was definitely not normal Doyle behavior!

As if his disappearing act wasn't bad enough, the fact that the other members of the team were deliberately covering for him made it all the worse. They may have thought they were protecting him from Cordelia's wrath, but they had no idea how low he could go on his own. Even Angel, who knew better than anyone how dangerous Doyle's bad habits could be, had come back from smashing Lee DeMarco's magic crystal ball with a mouth full of excuses on Doyle's behalf.

Something was rotten in Vegas, and sadly, Cordelia was certain she knew what it was.

But, standing in her doorway was not the boyfriend with the neck she wanted so desperately to wring…

"Oh. Hey, Fred." Cordelia unenthusiastically addressed her smiling colleague, who was in possession of a conspicuously large white box. "What's up?"

"Hey. I-I was just passing by on my way to the vending machine and I saw this package on your doorstep." She said brightly, indicating the box in her arms.

"I didn't order anything..." Cordelia replied, holding her hair turban in place as she reached out to take the package from Fred. Leaving the door open in her wake, she padded away to place the box down on the bedspread and detach the small card taped to the front.

Fred entered the room without invitation, politely closing the door behind her. A curious look twinkled in her eyes as she sidled up beside Cordelia, watching as the other woman unsealed the tiny envelope and retrieved the miniature card within.

Cordelia's face settled into a perplexed frown as she read the message and then passed the note along to Fred. Leaning over the box itself, she removed the lid and dug through the fluffy pink layers of tissue paper to find the prize waiting inside.

"Wear this tonight." Fred read the note aloud and then gave a nervous giggle. "It's not signed."

There was no answer from Cordelia, who was entranced by the yards of glistening fabric she was now lifting from the depths of its boxed enclosure.

It was a gown—not just any gown, but a stunning white gown that shimmered in the glow of the hotel room's lights. Cordelia didn't need to try it on to know that it would fit like a glove, hugging her curves and showing skin in all the right places.

"Wow." Fred breathed admiringly, just as mesmerized by the dress as its new owner apparently was. "It's so beautiful."

"It really is." Cordelia agreed, feeling the immediate urge to drape herself in this magnificent material and parade around the casino's lobby, making jaws drop as far as the eye could see.

"Doyle's gonna die when he sees you in it." Fred predicted, reaching out to inspect the fabric closer.

At the mention of her missing beau's name, Cordelia snapped out of her dress-induced fantasy and crashed back to the reality that she was currently living. "Let me see that note again." She demanded, snatching the tiny card from Fred's hands while simultaneously thrusting the exceptional gown into the other woman's arms. "This isn't Doyle's handwriting."

"Maybe he got someone at the dress shop to write it out?" Fred suggested, hugging the dress to her own body as she leaned over Cordelia's shoulder to also scrutinize the vague message inked across the otherwise blank notecard. It didn't offer much in the way of clues to its origin. No hotel name or shop name or name of any kind.

"Maybe…" Cordelia mused, flipping the note over to look at the completely blank side and then lifting the envelope to see if it had an insignia she had previously missed. "I'm getting a bad feeling about this."

"A bad feeling?" Fred repeated incredulously. "About a dress? B-but, it's so pretty. And it's so…. _you_. Don't you wanna put it on and twirl a lot?"

"Well, of course, I do. Is my name Cordelia Chase or is my name Cordelia Chase?" Cordelia allowed, taking back the gown from Fred and holding it out for both of them to admire together. "It would look amazing on me."

"So, what's the problem?" Fred asked. "Angel did say we should dress nice tonight—really do it up for our last night in town… that better mean he's springing for dinner."

"Doyle couldn't afford something like this." Cordelia stated firmly, her jaw setting in a decisive scowl. "Not unless he won a lot of money gambling—and if he won money, then he probably lost it all, which means this is _definitely_ not from Doyle."

"Who else would've sent it?" Fred wondered, blinking her way through Cordelia's rather confusing mental expedition.

"A lonely billionaire, most likely." Cordelia muttered, gathering the fabric so she could fold it and place it carefully back into the box from whence it came. "I saw the movie—I know how these things go."

"I dunno if it's just because I lived in a cave in a hell dimension for five years, but I don't think I'm following." Fred said, her nose crinkling to further illustrate her confusion. The room seemed much darker without the shimmering material to illuminate the lamplight.

"It's an indecent proposal!" Cordelia concluded, slapping the lid on the box and whirling toward Fred with eyes-a-blazing. "_Obviously_ Doyle exhausted his cash resources at the poker table and placed the only other item of value he had into the pot—yours truly!"

Fred's eyes went wide with horror and she shook her head reflexively. "No, Cordy—that's crazy." She continued to shake her head adamantly. "Doyle would never do something like that."

"He wouldn't do that in L.A. where he's good-guy-Doyle, messenger to the PTB extraordinaire." Cordelia allowed. "But this is Vegas—he's a different person here. Someone who _might_ be capable of gambling away the best thing he's ever had."

"You can't really believe that." Fred insisted. "He _loves_ you."

"He's an addict, Fred." Cordelia explained, folding her hands over her chest and tapping her foot to vent her nervous energy. "Love conquers most things, but not that."

"I disagree." Fred said emphatically, taking a step closer and reaching out to touch Cordelia's arm reassuringly. "I'm not pretending to know everything about Doyle's past, but I definitely know what I've seen with my own eyes – there's nothing on this planet Doyle would choose over you, least of all money. Not in L.A. or Las Vegas or anywhere else. I think you know that, too. Right? Or else… why would you be with him in the first place?"

Cordelia let out a long, deep breath and her posture slackened as Fred's very logical argument hit its mark. "I thought I knew… but where is he right now, huh? Where has he been since we got here? _Not_ with me."

"Well, I know where he'll be _tonight_." Fred answered with an encouraging half-smile. "If you show up in that dress I don't think he'll go missing again."

"It is a fabulous dress." Cordelia admitted, tilting her head down toward the white box, imagining herself swathed in its fabulous contents. "But, if some Robert Redford type shows up and propositions me with a suitcase full of cash, Doyle's gonna find himself out of luck."

Fred laughed in reply, although Cordelia's statement had been less than half-joking. A knock at the door gave both women pause.

"Are you expecting anything else?" Fred wondered.

"I wasn't expecting anything to begin with…" Cordelia replied, padding back across the hotel room carpet, opening the door and accepting a second white box from the bellhop on the other side. She thanked the man and then turned to Fred with a smile that could light up a room.

"Check out these shoes!"

* * *

A high-pitched whistle echoed across the lobby of Caesar's Palace, as Cordelia sashayed her way through the front doors and to the designated meeting spot for tonight's festivities.

"Was there a meteor shower?" Lorne asked, pausing from signing an autograph to address the vision who had just joined him. His thankful fan scurried away as he fully turned his attention on the new arrival. "Because you are not of this Earth, woman!"

"Coming from 'The Green Velvet Fog' that's quite a compliment." Cordelia laughed, running one well-manicured hand over the back of her head to make sure every curl was perfectly in place. She had spared no expense in making sure her hair, skin and nails looked and felt as fabulous as her new dress and shoes. If she was going to do it up for one night, she damn well was going to do it right. "This restaurant Angel's taking us to better be good—I did not get this dolled up for the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sizzler."

"Trust me, sugarplum, the night will not disappoint." Lorne replied with a knowing smile; he was looking past Cordelia toward Fred and Gunn, who had just made their own entrance. They, too, were dressed to impress, although not nearly as eye-catching as Cordelia in her glimmering gown. Gunn was wearing a swanky three-piece suit that had a vintage air to it—classic Vegas style, complete with top hat and blue boutonniere to match the lovely shade that Fred was wearing from head to toe.

Upon seeing Cordelia, Fred's face lit up like a Christmas tree. She clapped her hands together, hurrying her step so she could get close enough to take in all the details. "Oh, wow, Cordy. You look incredible!"

"I know." Cordelia agreed with a shrug; false modesty had never really been her style.

"A regular Marilyn Monroe." Gunn said approvingly.

"I was gonna say Ava Gardner." It was Angel's voice that had offered that particular compliment and all heads turned to see the vampire himself saunter up in a vintage suit that looked far more authentic than Gunn's. In fact, Cordelia suspected it was something Angel had actually worn in the 20s. "But she had nothing on you. You look beautiful, Cordelia."

"Thanks." Cordelia replied politely, her eyes drifting to the conspicuously empty spot beside Angel. "Surprise, surprise. You are lacking one scruffy-looking sidekick."

"He got held up." Angel answered vaguely, moving forward to take Cordelia's arm and nodding to the others to follow. "He knows where we're going—he'll meet us there."

"Angel." Cordelia said warningly has he proceeded to escort her down a long hallway that extended away from the main lobby and the adjacent casino floor. "I get that Doyle's your best friend and it's your duty to stand by him. But can you quit with the Houdini act already? No more distractions, no more smoke and mirrors—if Doyle's in trouble, I wanna know. Just give it to me straight."

"Okay." Angel answered.

"Okay?" Cordelia echoed with surprise. She waited for Angel to elaborate, but he said nothing. Instead he kept leading her down the hallway until they came to the far end, where he paused to open and hold a large wooden door.

She stared at him with puzzlement, not understanding the disconnect between his words and his actions. "Ooookay." She repeated. "So, what has Doyle gotten himself into?"

Angel merely nodded toward the open door, indicating that Cordelia should pass through to the other side. Fred, Gunn and Lorne were behind them, all smiles as they, too, seemed to be silently urging her forward.

Reluctantly, Cordelia moved through the open doorway and found herself transported to an enchanting courtyard surrounded by palm trees, high hedges and lit by rows of tiny white twinkle lights. In the center of the lush green space stood a circular gazebo surrounded by rows of empty stone benches. And from the recesses of the greenery Cordelia made eye contact with an inanimate audience—Roman gods sculpted from stone and marble.

The space felt magical. Not in the literal Sunnydale way, but in a way that made Cordelia hold her breath without even realizing she was doing so.

And there, in the middle of this bewitching location was Doyle, looking far more dapper than she'd ever seen him look before. Vintage white jacket over black tuxedo pants—a courageous choice that couldn't have been pulled off by most people. On Doyle, it somehow looked debonair, easily making him the Frank Sinatra to her Ava Gardner. She could tell that he had recently gotten a haircut and a professional shave. Even his shoes were shined to perfection.

This wasn't how she expected to find him after a two-day disappearing act in Sin City. Quite the opposite.

"You are a vision, Princess." He drank her in as he slowly made his approach. "I truly am the luckiest man alive."

Cordelia blinked several times and was more than a little tempted to pinch herself, but she settled for a hard swallow instead as she feasted her eyes on the very pleasing picture in front of her. "Up until about five seconds ago I was ready to murder you…" She admitted, taking a few dazed steps forward to meet him in the center of the courtyard. "Now all I can think about is how good you look in that tux. Which begs the question—_why_ are you wearing a tux?"

"Well…" He said, grinning at her as he bashfully scratched behind his left ear. "The not-being-angry bit was part of it. But mostly I was hopin' it would inspire ya to say 'yes.'"

"To an indecent proposal?" She asked cautiously, still feeling a little shell-shocked about how quickly the evening's tide had changed.

"I think it's a pretty decent one, actually." He answered, the laughter never leaving his eyes… even as he dropped to one knee.

"What?" She asked reflexively, feeling her heart surge in her chest. It was only then that she fully comprehended what this magical place was—a wedding chapel.

"I'm takin' a pretty big leap here, darlin', risking rejection in front of all our friends." He joked nervously, his words reminding Cordelia that the statues were not their only audience. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder and saw four smiling faces beaming back at her, some with tears in their eyes. Angel, most notably.

"Cordelia Chase." Doyle reclaimed her attention by saying her full name in a way he rarely ever said it. All traces of laughter had drained away and only sincerity was left behind. As he gazed up at her adoringly she saw his green eyes morph into a brilliant shade of blue. And he reached out and took her hand. "I'm madly in love with ya. And if you'll have me, I'd like to spend the rest o' my days by your side. However few or many there are."

From his pocket, he procured a tiny black velvet box, which he expertly flipped open, revealing a sparkling item contained within.

"Will you marry me?" He asked as Cordelia's eyes fell upon the familiar pattern of a heart-shaped diamond, enveloped by two hands and topped with a crown. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes instantly blurred with tears.

She had seen that ring before, while they were in Ireland. On the hand of Doyle's grandmother.

"Is that…?" She asked through barely working vocal chords.

"It is." Doyle answered with an assuring nod. "My Nan wanted ya to have it. Been in the family for generations. It was supposed to go to my mom, but seeing how she never had use for it… well, this just seems right, yeah?"

"I… I don't know what to say." Cordelia stammered, as her fingers gravitated toward the precious Doyle family heirloom.

_Cough_. "Yes." _Cough_. The not-so-subtle suggestion sounded like it had come from Gunn, although it was undoubtedly a sentiment shared by all those present.

That went double for Cordelia. "Yes!" She shouted, finally snapping out of her shock-induced verbal paralysis and wiggling her ring finger with anticipation. "Put that beauty where she belongs!"

Doyle laughed heartily as he deftly maneuvered the ring out of its resting place and nudged it onto her slender finger, getting only slightly stuck as he passed the first knuckle. "Tell ya the truth—that woulda felt wrong if ya hadn't made me sweat a little." He admitted as he rose to a standing position.

With a thousand-watt smile firmly in place, Cordelia gawked at her shiny new ring finger, wiggling it all around to catch the light. "I love it." She said and then almost as an afterthought she threw her arms around Doyle's neck and pulled him close to her face. "But not as much as I love you."

"I love ya, too, Princess." He said huskily, closing the gap between them to claim her lips in a celebratory kiss.

"Hey, hey, lovebirds. I haven't said you could kiss the bride yet." A familiar voice called gruffly from the direction of the Gazebo. "Or man and wife, or any of that other mumbo jumbo. You can't just skip ahead to the smooching."

The newly engaged couple parted and Cordelia threw a confused look over Doyle's shoulder at the vertically challenged demon calling for their attention.

"Penny?" Cordelia addressed Doyle's old gambling comrade with bemusement. Her eyes flickered over to Doyle to silently question the other demon's presence at their semi-private engagement.

"Ah…" Doyle chuckled nervously and scratched at the back of his finely combed hair.

"I'm the officiant." Penny offered by way of explanation, remaining firmly planted on the gazebo. "Don't worry; I got a certificate off the web—totally legit."

"Oh. _Oh_. You wanna get married right _now_?" Cordelia asked wondrously, staring at Doyle wide-eyed.

"That was the idea, yeah." Doyle agreed, slightly more timidly than his initial proposal had been. "Ya said it was your new dream to elope as long as ya had the right dress and shoes… but if something's not exactly right, or you've changed your mind, we can wait—"

"Let me stop you right there." Cordelia said, holding up her left hand with its flashy new adornment. "This isn't my dream come true… it's better." She turned to look over her shoulder at the smiling faces of her four best friends. "Everyone is here." She lied, but only slightly.

She tried not to focus on the missing faces. The man who had long been like a brother to her, and now was little more than a stranger. The child she had considered her nephew, but now was being raised somewhere else, by others who remained unknown to her. The old friends back in Sunnydale, who still held a special place in her heart. In that fleeting moment, she missed them all.

But, on the bright side, her mother and father were also not there. She'd take whatever silver lining she could get.

Cordelia turned back to the man who had just been upgraded from boyfriend to fiancé, imagining what life would be like if he became her husband from this day forward.

"So, what d'ya say, Princess?" Doyle queried. "Are ya game?"

* * *

The sound of mutual pleasure ebbed away, replaced by the telltale heavy breathing of post-coital exhaustion. Cordelia rolled lazily off the sweaty body beneath her, unsubtly using the top sheet to wipe the sweat from her upper chest. A sleepily satisfied smile settled across her lips as she sunk into her own pillow, perfectly matching the grin plastered across Doyle's face as he exhaled heavily beside her.

"I still can't believe it." She murmured aloud.

"That was something." Doyle agreed, running a hand through his mussed hair. "Can't say it was _unbelievable_—I mean, we've had our fair share o' practice over the years."

Cordelia gave him a playful pinch. "I can't believe we're married! I'm a _wife_ now. How weird is that?! …Well, okay, maybe it's not such a big deal for you; you've already been a husband before."

Doyle's brows shot upward in disagreement as he rolled toward her, propping his head up on his arm. "Are ya kiddin' me?" He asked rhetorically. "I've never been _your_ husband, darlin'. That's a very big deal."

"True." She said gleefully, rolling in his direction to mirror his position. "Being married to the one and only Cordelia Chase is a once-in-an-infinity experience."

"Don'tya mean Cordelia Doyle?" Doyle wondered. "You're a missus now, don't forget."

Cordelia's face slowly twisted into an apologetic grin. "Yeah, about that… I'm less into tradition and more into hyphens."

"Cordelia Chase-Doyle." He corrected, testing out the sound of her new name. "It's a mouthful."

"Not as bad as Allen Francis Chase-Doyle." She said brightly, nodding so that he'd have to nod along. "Don't worry. I'll still call you Doyle for short."

"Thanks." He conceded with a chuckle, and then followed it up by rolling himself toward her mouth and using a kiss as proper punctuation to their discussion. "Goodnight then, Mrs. Chase-Doyle."

As he rolled away once more, she reached out and stopped him. "Mmm. I don't think we're quite done yet. There's still a lot more honeymooning to do."

"That much?" Doyle asked dubiously, even as he accepted her sensuous kisses. "Not that I wanna be admitting this to my new bride, but twice in one night might be my limit at this stage in my life."

"Your human limit." Cordelia countered, kissing him again and making it last longer than the previous one. She simultaneously raked her freehand downward across his chest, knowing it wouldn't take much to convince Doyle that her way was the right way. "As the wife of a demon, I should get the perks."

That comment threw Doyle for a loop and he paused mere centimeters from her hungry mouth. "You're serious? You actually _want_ the demon in your bed?"

Cordelia laughed and then proceeded to nuzzle her nose against his. "Did you think I was joking all those other times I've suggested it? I want you, Doyle—all of you. I always have."

"And it helps that the spikier version has a little more in the stamina department, yeah?" Doyle guessed.

"How about this? We'll call it… a wedding gift." Cordelia suggested, one hand continued to explore beneath the covers as she caressed Doyle's stubbled chin with the other. "If you really and truly _dislike_ the experience, I promise I'll never ask again."

"That's a pretty good offer." Doyle relented, letting the ever-present quills push through his skin, which simultaneously became a deep shade of green. He felt the extra boost of strength and energy course through his body, and although he didn't want to admit it, a jolt of anticipation came along with it. "A bit of a sucker's bet on my part, though."

"That's the spirit." Cordelia cooed as she found what she was looking for beneath the sheets and excitedly rolled herself into a straddling position on top of her new husband. "Come to— Woah!" She squealed as she unexpectedly found herself being spun back down onto her back and pressed into the soft, Egyptian cotton sheets.

"Ya wanted a demon in your bed, Princess, you're getting a demon." Doyle promised in a guttural voice that could have been scary or sexy depending on the interpretation. The wink of one of his blood-red demon eyes, skewed things decidedly toward the latter.

"Oh, I want it." She assured him with a seductive smile, which grew even wider as he lowered himself down and began devouring every inch of her. "For as long as we both shall live."

* * *

**A/N - Well, there you have it! I have finally managed to get Cordy and Doyle to tie the knot. Trust me, when I say, I've been planning this for a very, very long time and I could not abandon this story without getting at least this far. I hope it is satisfying for all the other C/D loyalists out there who have been following my Doyle-verse. They deserve this moment of happiness... which is why I am going to take a brief hiatus (only a week, I promise) and let them (and you) relish in the celebration. Because, when you're on top of the world, there's really only one way to go. And this season is far from over. **


	5. Slouching Toward Bethlehem

**5\. ****Slouching Toward Bethlehem**

"No, no, we don't need any help; we can manage." Cordelia spoke into the telephone receiver as she leaned her backside against the kitchen counter of her apartment, watching Clover scarf down a bowl of cat food. "Are you sure _you guys_ don't need _our _help? Those demon births can be tricky." She listened to the reply from the other end of the line and then nodded in agreement even though the other party couldn't see her do so. "Okay, well, if you're sure—just make sure Manny pays _in full_ this time. I know we're heroes, but we've still got bills to pay."

After hanging up the receiver, Cordelia bent over to pat the top of Clover's furry head—the cat didn't pause from eating to acknowledge the affection, which was par for the course at dinnertime. Leaving the hungry feline to her meal, Cordelia navigated herself out into her messy living room and continued around the bend, taking in the chaos throughout the entire apartment.

No sooner had the blissful newlyweds returned home from Vegas—and crossed their threshold with Doyle carrying Cordelia, as tradition dictated—than a cold bucket of reality brought them crashing back down to Hell-A.

In their absence, an unknown party had broken into their home and ransacked the place, leaving it in shambles. A quick survey of the surroundings told them this was no ordinary burglary—none of their electronics, nor any of Cordelia's jewelry had been touched. It was everything else that had been left in disarray—couch cushions thrown aside, closets, drawers and bookshelves emptied, even their bed had been unmade and the mattress left askew. It was as if the person or persons responsible for the break in had gone out of their way to make a mess.

Or, they'd gone out of their way to find something _very specific_. What that something was, Cordelia couldn't fathom. Doyle swore he hadn't hidden anything of worth in the apartment, mystical or otherwise. Cordelia also couldn't think of a single object she owned that someone would go out of their way to steal… well, aside from the wedding ring that now adorned her left hand, but it was doubtful the modest heart-shaped diamond was the intended target. Not with all the magic and mayhem they were so accustomed to.

As Cordelia passed the front closet, she saw a pile of jackets magically arranging themselves on their hangers and floating into the closet. "Thanks for pitching in, Dennis." She said to the unseen fourth occupant of the apartment. "I wish you had a mouth so you could tell us who did this. Not to mention, _why_."

The jacket that had been halfway to the rack inside the closet paused mid-air and appeared to droop.

"Hey, don't feel bad—I'm sure you did everything you could to stop them." Cordelia continued, reading into Dennis' nonverbal communication, which was the ghost's only means of communication. "It wasn't your fault." She turned away, calling into the other room. "Doyle, tell Dennis this wasn't his fault!"

The only reply she received was a muted grunt, but she turned back in Dennis' general direction with an encouraging smile plastered on her face. "See. No one blames you. Keep that chin up, assuming ghosts have chins—when you're done with the closet, think you could work on the living room?"

Without waiting for an answer that would, of course, never come, Cordelia stepped over a fallen chair in her path and moved on toward the bedroom, where she further absorbed the whirlwind of disarray. "God, this place is totally trashed—kinda reminds me of your old place."

This time she had expected a response, and when none was offered, she turned toward her dear husband, curious as to what had him so preoccupied that he could completely tune out the sound of her voice, which she knew from experience, was not an easy voice to ignore. Her brow arched upward as her eyes fell upon the man in question. He was seated cross-legged amidst the disaster area that was their bedroom, with his nose firmly planted in a book.

"Seriously, Doyle? You've picked now to catch up on your reading list?" She questioned him, planting her hands on her hips. "I'm not cleaning this place all by myself."

"Oh… sorry. I was, ah… picking up the place." Doyle half-replied, lifting his head and flashing a guilty smirk in her direction. It was only then that her eyes grazed across the singed cover of the book in his lap and the words _Sunnydale High, Class of '99_ jumped out at her.

"My high school yearbook? Where'd you find that?" She asked, rapidly crossing the room so she could peer over his shoulder to view the open pages. When she glanced down, it was the '98-'99 Sunnydale High Varsity Cheerleading team that smiled back at her, with her own smiling face front and center, pom pons raised high.

"Right here. Musta been in the closet." Doyle responded, flipping back a few pages to reveal Cordelia's personal page in the yearbook, which featured her professional graduation portrait, senior quote and a childhood photo of her wearing pigtails and professional riding gear. "You were a cute kid, Princess. Which, I guess isn't much of a surprise considering how cute ya turned out."

She found herself curling into a seated position beside him, so she could take the book into her own lap and study it closer. Her fingers brushed over her much younger face, which was beaming as brightly as it ever had. "I think that was the day I got Madonna, my first pony. Sadly, she didn't last long—there was an incident with the groundskeeper."

"What kind of an incident?" Doyle asked queasily, his face revealing just how far his imagination could run with that idea.

"Stop being a perv." Cordelia replied, chastising him with her elbow as well as her words. "Javier was about a thousand years old and borderline senile. He left the gate open one day and Madonna wandered into the road. Grandpa plowed her down with the Mercedes."

"Sorry to hear that." Doyle said, keeping his expression as solemn as possible, although, Cordelia got the distinct impression that he wanted to giggle. "I'm sure it was rough."

"It was very traumatic." Cordelia insisted. "Even worse than the time Keanu, my Palomino, was repossessed."

Now it was obvious that Doyle wanted to burst out laughing, but he managed to maintain most of his composure; his lips merely quivered while his eyes twinkled ferociously with laughter.

Cordelia ignored him as she began to flip through the semi-burnt pages of her former classmates. "I haven't looked through this in ages." She passed Xander without much of a pause, but held a little longer on her old pal, Harmony. Picking up her pace, the faces of Aura and Willow and Buffy swept by, and then she was back to the cheerleaders, followed by the football and swim teams. The chess club she didn't even know they'd had. Homecoming. The Winter Ball. The Senior Trip.

As she continued to wade through the waves of Sunnydale nostalgia, a small rectangle slid out from within the pages, landing against her abdomen. She lifted the white square and flipped it over, revealing… her Senior prom photo.

There she stood in her glistening silver gown, looking every bit the High School queen that she had once been. And standing at her side was none other than Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.

Her stomach did a somersault. Not because of some sort of misplaced feelings for Wesley—kissing him once had been more than enough to last her a lifetime—but, the reminder of what he had once been to her stung. Because he was nothing to her now.

Less than nothing. Her once-best-friend was a complete stranger.

"I guess Wesley had a sorta Pierce Brosnan-y vibe going on back then, yeah?" Doyle's jovial voice broke through her dense fog of mixed emotions. "If I didn't know better, I may even be jealous."

Cordelia blinked herself back to reality, shoving the emotionally jarring photo back into the pages of the yearbook. "I loved that dress." She said, for lack of anything else to say. Her voice sounded a bit foreign to her ears. "I wish I still had it, but I was so poor when I first got to L.A. that I could either keep the dress or have a bug-infested roof over my head. Sadly, I chose the bugs."

"Personally, I'd prefer if ya still had the little cheerleading number." Doyle quipped, his inappropriate humor drawing her fully back to the present. She snapped the yearbook shut, sending a puff of smoke-scented air into her nostrils.

"Alright, this trip down memory lane is officially over." She announced, tossing the yearbook back into the pile from whence it came and using Doyle's shoulder to levy herself back up to her feet. "You might feel right at home living in mountains of mess, but I won't be able to sleep until I can see the carpet again." Bounding toward the bedroom door, she paused and held up a finger as she added a second thought. "_And_ a new deadbolt."

* * *

The hallway was longer than she remembered and had a vaguely stuffy quality; Cordelia couldn't recall if it had always been this way or if it had somehow become less appealing in the many months since she'd last visited. Then again, it could simply be the fact that she had never spent this much time lingering in the hallway. One was bound to notice new details whilst standing there idly, debating on whether or not to knock.

At this point, she had stopped debating, had already knocked and was now in the "regretting it" phase of her little excursion. When the door finally swung open both she and the man on the opposite side seemed equally surprised to see one another. Maybe she hadn't expected him to actually open the door. Or maybe she just hadn't expected him to look so _good_. After all, the last time she'd laid eyes on him, he'd been in a hospital bed with his throat slit open.

"Cordelia." Wesley said her name with only half the surprise that shone on his face. Her name always sounded so posh in his accented English; that may have been one of the reasons she'd found him attractive all those years ago. Speaking of attractive, was it her imagination, or had he actually gotten much _more so_, since he'd parted ways with the team? Could betraying your friends and literally getting into bed with the enemy have a positive effect on one's appearance?

"You're back in L.A." He noted in a coolly polite tone.

"I've been back for a while." She confessed, sneaking a peek over his shoulder at the rest of his apartment that stood open and empty. Without waiting for an invitation that would likely never come, she crossed the threshold and meandered into the living room.

It was impossible not to recall better days in this place. Days of dinner parties and video games. Days when they were friends instead of whatever they were—or weren't—now. Days when she found this room inviting instead of... cold. "I'm surprised you even knew I was gone. You're not still keeping an eye on Doyle, are you?" She slowly turned around to face Wesley once again, her eyes only slightly judgmental. "Someone broke into our apartment the other night, you know."

Wesley sighed, closing the front door somewhat reluctantly. Even if he didn't mind finding her on his doorstep, she clearly wasn't welcome to stay and open old wounds. "So, you've come to accuse me of breaking and entering, is that right?"

"If I thought it was you, I'd say so." She clarified, in her trademark blunt manner. "Just making small talk," she added, realizing that her auto-attack mode probably wasn't going to accomplish much under these circumstances.

"Why did you come?" Wesley persisted.

"I got married." She blurted, without necessarily having planned to blurt the news just like that. She flashed a half-smile and a view of her shiny left ring finger. "To Doyle, obviously."

"Congratulations." He replied with neither a positive or negative inflection; if he was insulted at having been left off the guest list he certainly didn't let on.

"I felt like you should know." Cordelia admitted, feeling as if the wind that had carried her to Wesley's doorstep had long since left her sails. She wasn't sure what she expected to feel, seeing her old friend again, standing in his living room, sharing her good news. Perhaps, she wanted something—anything—more than a mixed bag of emotions in her belly and a neutral brick wall standing across from her.

"Thank you for informing me." Wesley said in a rather thankless voice.

"What about you?" Cordelia asked. "Seeing anyone these days?"

There was a long, pregnant pause as Wesley silently assessed her question and whether or not he intended to answer it. "It's been five months." Wesley reminded her, as if to imply that it was too late for an idle catch up. "A lot has changed."

"More like six, but who's counting." She rebutted, right before plowing into the real question that was gnawing at her. "Are you sleeping with Lilah Morgan? 'Cause both Doyle and Angel seem to think you are, but I'm having some real trouble with the concept."

"I don't see how it's any business of yours. Or theirs." Wesley answered in a decidedly more icy tone. He moved back to the front door and placed his hand on the doorknob.

"That's a big fat 'yes' if ever I've heard one." Cordelia inferred, not making so much as a flinch in the direction of his front door. "It's really sad to see how far you've fallen, Wes. Don't you miss being one of the good guys?"

"Saving souls doesn't require precognitive abilities, prophetic champions or the express blessing of the Higher Powers. A few willing soldiers and good leadership works just as well." Wesley boasted in reply.

"You always did enjoy bossing people around." Cordelia deflected, although her stomach began to sour at his words, which were doubly as poignant as he had intended. For one thing, she couldn't be sure if the Powers were still guiding the hand of Angel investigations. Doyle hadn't received a new vision in ages, and any knowledge he'd gleaned from that three-year-old vision of the future had long since become irrelevant. Angel was still a champion, of course, but who knew if there was even an apocalyptic battle left to fight. Wesley's team might be doing every bit as much good as Angel Investigations, if not more so, judging by Gunn's insistence that they were getting "all the gigs."

"Something we both have in common." Wesley responded. "Only some of us do it with more tact than others."

"Not my fault if the truth hurts." Cordelia countered. "And here's some more agonizing truth while I'm at it—this whole poor, isolated dark-Wesley routine is all your own doing. You don't have to be sleeping with the enemy. You could've come back. You could've made amends. I think you want it this way—punishing us because _you_ made a bad call."

"This isn't punishment, Cordelia." Wesley replied curtly. "Not for anyone on your end, at least." He swung the front door wide and waited patiently beside it, not quite meeting her eye. "And I can't say I understand the point of you coming here. It feels rather unnecessary after all this time, wouldn't you say?"

Gravitating toward the exit at a reluctant pace, Cordelia felt the final wave of truth crash over her tongue just before the door shut behind her. "I came here because I missed my old friend, Wes. I'm sad to see he's gone for good."


	6. Supersymmetry

**6\. Supersymmetry**

"There are several competing dimensional theories." Fred read nervously from the podium at the front of the sizable auditorium. "And, while each provide insights, physicists have long searched for a unifying theory—one that can account for both the behavior of the smallest sub-atomic particles and the largest forces of nature."

Doyle blinked a few times, but managed to keep his eyes fully open. The last thing he wanted was for Fred to catch him dozing during her big physics speech… no matter how unintelligible said speech was to Doyle's non-scientific ears.

At least he was in good company. Gunn may have had a proud smile plastered across his face as his girlfriend took a giant leap back into the world of academia, but it wasn't likely that he understood any more about the topic of Supersymmetry and P-Dimensional Subspace than Doyle did. Cordelia, too, sat ramrod straight in the chair next to Gunn, eyes enlarged to an unnatural circumference as she struggled to keep them open. To Doyle's left was Angel, who with his slightly furrowed brow, looked the most convincing in terms of following the dense material contained within Fred's practiced words.

Twisting his wrist so his watch face was in view, Doyle subtly glanced down at the little hands working their way around the circular timepiece. It was less than a minute since the last time he'd peeked, although it felt much, much longer. If he didn't know better, he'd think the rules of physics had changed in this particular room, turning each ticking second into a full minute in and of itself. By that calculation, Fred's speech would take an entire day, rather than less than a half-hour.

That wasn't really happening, of course.

Probably.

He glanced back up at Fred as she adjusted the black-rimmed spectacles she'd chosen to wear for the occasion. "Consider the non-perturbative properties of superstring theory," she read from the shaking index card in her hand.

Even though Doyle had _just_ looked at his watch, he felt compelled to look again. Just to make sure the hands were still moving.

Yep. Still moving.

A loud gasp from Cordelia was followed closely by an orchestra of gasps and murmurs from the rest of the audience behind them—they were, after all, front row center. Doyle's eyes rocketed back to the stage to see what Fred had done to illicit such a reaction. But, it was nothing she had done. More like what was about to be done _to her_ by the giant multi-headed creature that was crawling out of the swirling portal that had opened right above her unsuspecting head.

"Fred! No!" Gunn shouted, as he tore out of his seat and leapt onto the stage in one fluid motion. Angel had moved nearly in unison with his fully human ally—Gunn's adrenaline gave him the edge, allowing him to reach Fred even before the vampire could. And well before Doyle jumped from his own seat to assist.

Fred's shrieks of terror now filled the air as the beast wrapped itself around her small frame and began dragging her toward what was undoubtedly her worst nightmare, one she'd lived through already and had barely survived—a portal to another dimension.

"Hang on, baby! I got you." Gunn reassured her, holding tightly to her arm and trying to wrestle her away from the half-reptilian, half-crustacean creature that looked powerful enough to easily drag both of them away. Doyle added himself to the human chain, holding tightly to Gunn's ankle, while anchoring his foot around the edge of the stage. Meanwhile, Angel had attacked from a different direction, and was rewarded with a snake-like appendage wrapped around his neck.

Most of the audience had the good sense to flee in horror, even without Cordelia's encouragement to do so. All except for one scruffy young man in a t-shirt with the word "THWACK" printed across the front. Instead of running for his life, he had produced a camera from his backpack and was eagerly taking photo after photo of the horrifying spectacle, maneuvering himself closer to the stage, searching for the best angle.

"Move it or lose it, freak!" Cordelia shouted, shoving the photographer out of her way as she climbed onto the stage with the rest of her teammates. She bee-lined toward Angel, dodging a wild tentacle in her path—unlike her non-breathing companion, she couldn't afford to get tangled up in that mess. Luckily, she was quick and limber enough to duck around the danger and wrap her fist around the dagger she knew Angel kept holstered in his boot.

The sharp metal glinted under the stage lights right before Cordelia plunged it deep into the creature's muscled appendage and yanked downward to sever the limb.

Angel was dropped with a dull thud, while Fred, Gunn and Doyle landed in a heap on the far side of the stage. The creature began shrieking in pain as it retracted its many heads and limbs, and withdrew into the portal from whence it came. The glowing wind tunnel instantly closed behind the retreating monster, sucking away all the noise from the now-empty auditorium.

"It's over, baby." Gunn murmured into the top of Fred's hair. Her very pale face was visible amidst the vice grip of Gunn's bulky arms. "You're fine." He soothed, although anyone who looked at Fred could see that she was anything but.

Cordelia left Angel to pick himself up off the floor, and crossed the stage to her half-demon husband who hadn't been able to use any of his demon attributes during this particular fight. He was wincing as he rubbed his lower back, which had taken the brunt of his fall along with the two people who'd landed on top of him.

"You okay?" She asked, extending a helping hand toward him. He gratefully accepted the hand and gingerly got to his feet, still rubbing at his lower spine as Angel sauntered over to join them.

"Just wishing Gunn wasn't so bulky, yeah?" Doyle grumbled, but not loud enough for the other couple, still curled around each other on the floor, to overhear. "What's a fella need that many muscles for anyway?"

"Safe to say that wasn't an accident." Angel surmised. "Anyone look suspicious to you?"

"Nah, man. They all looked like… well, the sorta folks you'd find at a physics convention." Doyle replied.

"Don't underestimate the geek population, Doyle." Cordelia admonished. "In Sunnydale there was this trifecta of evil geeks who tormented Buffy all last year. One of them even _killed_ Willow's girlfriend."

"I stand corrected." Doyle amended his previous conclusion. "There definitely coulda been some evil geeks mixed in with the rest of 'em."

"Wesley was here." Angel said.

"You saw him?" Cordelia asked with surprise, her eyes searching every corner of the room, although it was clearly empty at this point.

"Okay, I'll give ya the geek part, but regardless of what y'think o' the guy, he's not evil." Doyle argued in their former colleague's defense. "He wouldn't have done a thing like this, especially not to Fred."

"He was an eye-witness." Angel responded as if he had never intended to accuse Wesley.

"Sure, _he_ wouldn't do this…" Cordelia said, folding her arms over her chest. "But wake up and smell the sulfur. That hellacious bitch he's dating definitely strikes me as the homicidally jealous type." She silently pointed at Fred using only her eyeballs.

"And here I thought that smell was the portal." Doyle replied, waving one of his hands beneath his nose, to brush away the literal stink that still lingered in the air.

"It has been a few weeks since I stormed into Lilah's office and accused her of evildoing." Angel noted facetiously. "Think we're overdue for a visit."

* * *

"That bastard needs to die!"

"Okay, Fred, let's take a deep breath, sit down and take it again from the top." Cordelia said patiently, trying to calm down the frazzled woman who had just stormed into the hotel. "You really think Professor Seidel is the guy who opened that portal during your speech?"

"It was him." Fred insisted, pacing the tiled floor of the Hyperion Lobby, while Cordelia tried to subtly steer her toward one of the plush red chairs. "And he's done it before!"

"Are you sure?" Cordelia asked skeptically, trying to reconcile all the positive things Fred had previously expounded about her former Physics professor with the very atrocious thing she was now accusing him of doing. "I haven't seen a lot of news stories about giant snakes suddenly appearing out of thin air at science conventions. You'd think that'd be widely reported, even in this town."

"He's the son of a bitch that sent me to Pylea!" Fred shrieked, her fingers balled into tight fists. She stomped right by the red chairs and made a sharp about face before ramming into a wall. Giving up her fruitless efforts, Cordelia sunk into the chair in her friend's stead and let the other woman continue to vent her furious energy. "For five years! Obviously, he'd meant it to be forever."

"Oh, now I get why the death threats." Cordelia replied pacifyingly. "So, that was like a jealousy thing? Who knew the world of Physics was so cut-throat?"

Fred merely glared in answer, which was answer enough.

The whooshing open of the front door brought Cordelia some relief as she turned to see Angel, Gunn and Doyle trudge in from their inquisition at the local comic book shop. If anyone could soothe the savage Fred, it was definitely Gunn.

"Fred, thank God you're back!" Gunn exclaimed, rushing immediately to his girlfriend's side and catching her mid-pace. "It was Professor Seidel."

Cordelia eyeballed the heavy-looking plastic bag in Doyle's hand which had the word THWACK written across it. She didn't have to guess at its contents. "Don't tell me you had time to buy comic books during an interrogation."

Doyle slid one of the books partially out of the bag, proudly flashing a _Batman_ title in her direction. "They had the entire _Batman: Fugitive_ series for half price. Talk about an offer I couldn't refuse, yeah?"

Rolling her eyes, Cordelia didn't bother commenting on all the ways she would have gladly refused such a thing. But, there were far more important things to focus on at the moment. Their borderline homicidal co-worker being the most pressing one.

"He needs to die for what he did!" Fred repeated her earlier murderous sentiment through gritted teeth, as Gunn held her loosely in place.

"Not for yesterday's portal, for the one that sent Fred to Pylea." Cordelia explained, sharing a worried glance with both Angel and Doyle. "I think you're all caught up now."

It was unlike Fred to be this worked up, although under the circumstances Cordelia couldn't exactly blame the other woman for her very justified wrath. Having five years of her life stolen—and very nearly her entire adult life—was no small matter. In fact, the more Cordelia thought about the situation, the more she was decidedly team Fred.

"What do you mean _die_?" Gunn asked skeptically, obviously concerned about his girlfriend's unusual temperament.

"I don't know yet." Fred replied, easily shaking herself out of Gunn's loose grip and wandering in the general direction of the weapons cabinet. "What's the most painful weapon we have?"

"Probably the flail whip." Angel supplied reflexively, and then rapidly crossed the room to place a hand over the weapons, preventing Fred from retrieving any of them. "Not that you should use it—_ever_. Maybe we should sit down and talk about this some more."

"I already suggested sitting." Cordelia explained, leaning back into her plush chair and crossing her legs as she looked up at the ceiling. "And breathing. Didn't seem to take."

"How about a drink…?" Doyle suggested lamely, placing his bag of loot on the front counter and trying to assist with the touchy situation. "I think I've still got a bottle o' Jack hidden 'round here somewhere."

"That sounds like a good idea." Gunn agreed eagerly, trying to usher Fred away from the pointy objects. "Let's just calm down and—"

"I don't want to calm down!" Fred shot back angrily, trying to reach around both Gunn and Angel for whatever weapon was handiest. It turned out to be an axe. "I idolized him, and he sent me to hell. Who knows how many others he did that to—how many of them didn't make it back. So-so sure! I'll calm down when he's dead!"

To Gunn's credit, he kept his cool as he addressed his now axe-wielding girlfriend. "Fred, a few years ago, I would've done in the guy myself. But this—it isn't what we do."

"We kill monsters every day." She argued, her fingers wrapped tightly around the wooden handle of her weapon.

"We help people." Gunn countered. "Fred, if you do this, the demons you'll be living with won't be the horned, fangy kind. They'll be the kind you can't get rid of."

"You're wrong." She insisted, backing a few steps away from Gunn and Angel, only to find Doyle waiting behind her.

"He's right." Angel piped in. "Whatever you do now it's nothing compared to how it'll be afterward. Take it from someone who knows."

"We'll find another way to make him pay." Doyle offered, reaching out to put a hand on Fred's axe handle. "He's not gonna get off scott free, darlin'. We promise ya that."

"Right." Fred answered, her wild eyes searching the group of men who essentially had her surrounded. She opened her palm, freely letting Doyle disarm her. "I'm sorry, guys. Guess I kinda lost it."

"Totally understandable under the circumstances." Doyle reassured her. "Now how about that drink? If ya don't like it straight, I could add whiskey to pretty much anything. Hot cocoa, for instance."

"No. Thanks." Fred said politely, slowly stepping out of their protective circle and heading toward the main staircase. "I'm just gonna go lie down... for a few days."

They all stood quietly watching her go, everyone wearing a slightly false smile. Once she was out of earshot, the smiles dropped, the shoulders drooped and Doyle let the axe clatter unceremoniously against the surface of the reception counter. "It's always the quiet ones."

"So what are we gonna do to this guy?" Gunn demanded, his previously calm demeanor giving way to his own deadly rage.

"I don't know, but we need to do it fast." Angel replied.

"Considering this guy could drop us into the Twilight Zone, we're gonna need a better plan than 'I dunno, but do it fast.'" Doyle pointed out.

"What about a prison dimension?" Angel suggested. "Like the one that held Billy Blim?"

Gunn nodded along enthusiastically. "Instant karma—I'm feeling it."

"Now all we need is someone with a working knowledge of portals who isn't the guy we wanna send through one." Doyle grumbled. "Know anyone like that?"

At the mention of Billy Blim, Cordelia recalled her own desire for revenge once upon a time. And how resentful she'd been of Angel and Doyle trying to take it away from her. "Do you cowboys want a dame's opinion? Or are you really naïve enough to believe that dear, sweet, little Fred is actually going upstairs to cry under her covers?"

Cordelia's voice was like a cold bucket of water thrown on the grand plan devised by the three male members of Angel Investigations. All eyes turned questioningly in her direction.

"What are ya saying?" Doyle asked.

"I mean, if it were me, I'd be sneaking out the backdoor with a crossbow stuffed in my purse." She specified. "And I know what you're gonna say—Fred and I are very different people—which, _true_. But, I also wasn't driven completely bonkers in a hell dimension for half a decade. I'd probably kill someone _twice_ for that. Possibly using the flail whip."

"Fred wouldn't." Angel said certainly, but then his expression changed to a far less confident one as he turned to Gunn. "Would she?"

"Nah, man." Gunn insisted, but he too looked doubtful. "She'd at least take some backup."

"Well, it's not like anyone here is gonna help her with the murdering bit." Doyle surmised.

With a heavy sigh, Cordelia finally rose from her chair and faced the men with a grim expression. They all rapidly came to the same conclusion she had already reached even as she stated the obvious. "There's someone who will help her."

* * *

Angel entered the front doors of the Hyperion and held them open for his exhausted teammates who trudged in behind him. "Sucked into his own portal. Wish I could have seen his face."

"Yeah." Gunn replied dully, not pausing as he made his way directly toward the main staircase. "I'm gonna…"

His voice trailed off as Fred's equally gloomy response followed. "Goodnight," she said, shadowing Gunn's footpath straight up the stairs.

Angel looked after the couple with concerned puzzlement, surprised to see such miserable faces after what could only be described as a successful outcome to a difficult case. "Something's wrong." He announced to Doyle and Cordelia as they hobbled through the open doors a few moments later, each of them covered head-to-toe in bruises bestowed by a Voynok demon that, unfortunately, had nine lives with which to pulverize them.

"A lot's wrong." Doyle agreed, with his arms wrapped around his aching ribcage. "Definitely a cracked rib. Possibly some internal bleeding."

"Fred and Gunn aren't telling us everything." Angel clarified, closing the door behind his slow-moving comrades and following them in the direction of the reception counter. He was injured too, but his wounds would heal much faster than theirs would.

"Duh." Cordelia agreed, wincing each time she put weight on her right knee, which had taken a nasty blow. "Those two are cagier than an MMA match. Maybe it wasn't karma that got the Professor after all."

"Y'think Fred killed him?" Doyle wondered, stopping to turn and face Angel as he asked the unfathomable question. "Or... Gunn had a change o' heart."

Angel gave a solemn shrug in reply.

"All I know is _that_ wasn't a happy couple—and nothing makes a couple more unhappy than a deep, dark, festering secret." Cordelia spoke from experience, leaning on the side of the counter as she limped her way to her desk. As she rounded the corner she came to a resounding halt. "What the-? Crap!" She stood up straighter as her adrenaline kicked in. "Looks like our apartment bandit struck again! Couldn't they rob us without making such a mess?"

Angel and Doyle came up behind her to take in the damage. Sure enough, her desk and filing cabinets had been ransacked; papers strewn across the floor in chaotic piles.

With only a quick glance to assess the damage to his own office, Angel rushed toward the basement steps. "I'll check the Axis of Pythia." He called over his shoulder, before disappearing with an audible whoosh.

Cordelia sat down behind her disorderly desk with a heavy sigh. "I'd check the petty cash if we had any. But, we know these guys weren't looking for cash."

"Or gals." Doyle added, pushing aside some of the mess so he could perch on his usual spot at the edge of her desk. "Let's not be sexist."

"I just don't understand why they started with our place." Cordelia muttered, rubbing at a sore spot on the back of her neck. "It's not like we keep any of the mystical valuables over there. We don't even keep _valuable_ valuables over there." She hitched a thumb over her shoulder at the weapons cabinet, which appeared untouched. "That 15th Century short sword cost more than my entire wardrobe."

"It's like ya said—money wasn't the object." Doyle reiterated. "But judging by all the mess, they do seem to have a very specific object in mind."

"Something that belongs to _you_." Cordelia deduced, waiting for Doyle to meet her eyes. "If they wanted one of Angel's moldy old trinkets, this would've been the first place they looked."

"Good thinkin'. You should be a detective." Doyle teased, trying to lighten the mood even as his already spinning wheels began to turn faster.

"The Axis is still here." Angel announced as he reappeared at the top of the basement stairs and entered the reception area.

"That's a relief." Cordelia said. "What about the scarface-genie and his lamp?"

"Pretty sure Sahjhan's still in the urn." Angel confirmed, understanding Cordelia's unique lexicon.

"Are you sure, man?" Doyle questioned, inching toward the basement door. He had a building suspicion that he needed to investigate for himself. "Maybe I'd better go down there and check it out."

"The cage is still locked. It wasn't even touched." Angel clarified, reaching out to halt Doyle in his tracks. "Whatever they were looking for was in your old boxes."

"I knew it! I _knew_ it was something of yours!" Cordelia exclaimed, shaking an accusatory finger in Doyle's direction. Her finger-wagging slowed to a pause as she considered the contents of said boxes, of which she had helped pack once upon a time. "But, I also know there's nothing in those boxes but worthless junk. What could someone possibly want to steal?"

"Doyle." Angel prodded. "How bad is it?"

Doyle inhaled shakily. A clear answer had already dawned on him. And it was pretty damn bad.

"My vision o' the future…" Doyle confirmed the one thing he had that was worth stealing. "I wrote it down."


	7. Spin the Bottle, Part 1

**Spin the Bottle, Part I**

"It's just as you suspected. He-he knew everything."

"Define _everything_." Lilah stood over the nebbish of a lab tech with her arms crossed over her perfectly pressed designer suit. She looked down on all of the lab monkeys, both literally and figuratively. Most of them were technically geniuses, and yet not one of them could describe their findings in a way that didn't exasperate her. They either buried their answers in scientific jargon that might as well be Gashundi, or they oversimplified things to the point of being glib.

"Well, my corroborative algorithm indicates a 99.8% match to significant supernatural phenomena occurring within the last three years." The rumpled lab tech nervously blew a lock of his unkempt hair from his face as he hunched over the notebook. "Statistics like this are unheard of even for our most accomplished seers."

Lilah's eyes rolled into her head. "Back to the English version, 3-P0."

"Sorry. I-I've, uh… cross-checked keywords from the notebook with notable events that have happened in the last few years." The dweeb finally explained in a coherent manner. "There's been a nearly flawless accuracy up until recently. L-look here." He said, opening the first page of the handwritten schoolbook and pressing one pudgy finger into the inked lettering. "The starting point is approximately 3.25 years ago, right around the appearance of the Scourge."

He rapidly flipped several pages forward in time. "This section coincides with the events that led to the massacre in Holland Manners' wine cellar—the penmanship declines significantly on these pages, indicating that the writer was emotionally distressed about this particular recollection."

"Recollection?" Lilah repeated. "Don't you mean premonition? This was written before it happened."

The lab tech's eyes lit up with an odd sort of excitement. "It was, ma'am." The glare she gave him at being addressed as "ma'am" gave him pause, but he pressed on. "Uh, but no… premonitions would not result in this level of emotional engagement. These descriptions—even those that are vague or incomplete—are transcribed from this individual's memory. It's as if he _experienced_ these events before they transpired."

"That must have been one hell of a vision." Lilah remarked, reflecting on what she knew of Doyle's gift. "What else?"

The lab tech gave her a little nod as he flipped three quarters of the way through the book to a page flagged with a small purple post-it. "This part refers to the demon Sahjhan and his manipulation of one, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. It is a fairly detailed account, down to the exact time and place the son of the vampire would be taken to Quor'toth to become 'The Destroyer.'"

"The Destroyer." Lilah echoed with budding interest. "That sounds promising. And here I assumed the kid was just dead."

"Well, I'm afraid it's unclear if that transformation took place, ma-a—." The lab tech noticeably gulped. "Ms. Morgan." He reached forward and began hastily flipping the pages of the book once more, this time moving forward in time, past the purple post-it. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "There's, uh… some other points of interest that you should review. They are beyond the diverging point—"

"Hold on." Lilah cut off the stuttering techy from further unnecessary explanations as she honed in on the most important piece of information he had given her. "The _diverging_ _point_—so he did change something in the timeline?"

"Oh, much more than _something_. Close to everything has changed since then." The lab tech replied, flipping back to the passages about Sahjhan that he had originally pointed out. "The accuracy index drops to under 33% once the child was sent to Quor'toth, indicating—."

"That he wasn't." Lilah concluded unhappily.

"The data would support that hypothesis, yes." The nervous tech agreed, perhaps concerned that his irate boss would turn on this particular messenger.

"That little Irish bastard got us." Lilah grumbled, balling her fists at her sides. She had long suspected that Doyle was successful in altering the timeline. What she hadn't known is that he'd done it right under her nose.

"Might I suggest a retrieval of the Axis of Pythia?" The lab tech suggested sheepishly. "It could be helpful if the Senior Partners want the boy's current location."

"Stick to your paygrade, Chachi." Lilah retorted, giving the techie a pitiful look before turning on her very sharp heel and clacking her way to the exit. "I'll worry about satiating the Senior Partners—you worry about getting your mind-numbingly tedious report on my desk by morning. Or I'll have you locked in the basement writing that thing in perpetuity."

* * *

"At least they didn't take my lucky boxers." Doyle proclaimed, holding up a raggedy square of plaid that was unidentifiable as a wearable garment. He was squatting on the floor of the basement/training room, sifting through what remained of his old belongings. There wasn't much of note aside from that which had already been taken. "I won a lotta coin wearing these."

Angel made no comment. He was perched atop a wooden chest across the room, his hands resting on his knees. There was no judgment emanating from the vampire, nor was there any obvious concern. He merely sat in quiet observation.

"Maybe none of it even matters." Doyle said semi-convincingly, keeping his head bowed toward the sad contents of the one battered cardboard box that had been left behind. "A lot's changed from the vision I saw. That book's practically a work o' fiction at this point."

"Who are you and what have you done with Doyle?" Angel deadpanned.

Doyle chuckled ruefully as he closed the box, wiped his dusty hands against his pants legs and stood up to face his friend. "A'right, ya got me. Truth is, I'm kickin' myself for not burning that thing ages ago."

"Who besides you knew it was down here?" Angel wondered.

"I didn't go around advertising the fact that I'd written down the entire course of events leading up to the apocalypse." Doyle swore. "I might've mentioned it to Cordy."

There was a slight pause before Angel spoke again, "I assume you didn't tell Wesley."

"Sahjhan could have." Doyle answered, scratching the top of his head. "That guy spent millennia eavesdropping and gossiping. He knew his fair share about me, yeah?"

"Which brings us to the usual number one suspect." Angel sighed heavily. "Let's assume Wolfram & Hart have the notebook. What's the worst they could do with it?"

"Well, considering the book's a blueprint to the apocalypse..." Doyle pointed out. "I'm thinkin' they could end the world."

"Worst case scenario." Angel added with a kernel of hope in his voice.

"The other scenarios aren't much better." Doyle admitted. "Revenge, murder—not to mention a highly disturbing sexual affair of Cordy's that I'd rather not think about…"

"Doyle, you can't get distracted by the personal stuff." Angel chided. "Cordelia's sex life isn't going to bring about the apocalypse."

"Maybe not this go around." Doyle retorted. "But Cordy's sex life was very much a part o' the highlight reel of my apocalyptic vision. Ya might even call it a key element."

"Cordelia?" Angel asked skeptically. "I thought you said Connor was the key?"

"He was—_is_." Doyle agreed. "There's a whole formula. Trust me, ya don't want the sordid details, man. I don't even want 'em."

Angel frowned at the implications behind Doyle's words, the list of extremely disturbing possibilities unfurling before him. "Was it me?" He finally wondered aloud. "The, um… thing with Cordelia." The vampire cleared his throat uncomfortably, not able to meet Doyle's eyes as he asked the awkward question. "Because you said we were… you know. Maybe we took things too far and—."

"It wasn't Angelus if that's what you're getting at." Doyle pulled his friend right out of the rabbit hole. "This would be an easy fix if all we had to avoid was you sleeping with my wife."

The tension in Angel's body released with a sigh, even as he absorbed the fact that whatever they might have to face was _worse_ than Angelus.

Doyle let his friend relish the moment of relief before summing up their conundrum. "The events detailed in those pages, won't happen the way they happened before—I'm confident o' that. Wolfram & Hart wouldn't even _want_ that, from what I recall. Problem is, they'll figure _some_ way to use that information for nefarious purposes, and when they do..."

Angel met Doyle's eyes and completed the grave warning, "There won't be a vision to warn us."

* * *

Wesley felt the mattress beneath him shift as a warm body slid beneath his sheets and pressed herself against his bare back. "Hi honey, I'm home." Lilah's voice purred into his ear right before she planted a kiss on the back of his shoulder blade.

"It's late. And this isn't your home." Wesley gruffed in reply, his words muffled by the fact that he had been sleeping soundly with his face mushed into his pillow. Nevertheless, he rolled toward his newly arrived bed companion, pleased to find her au natural. As she climbed on top of his already willing body, he grinned up at her cheekily. "But since you've dressed for the occasion..."

"I've had a day." She replied, leaning down to capture his lips as she began to grind her body against his beneath the sheets. "I need a distraction."

"Mmm." He agreed, accepting her ravenous kisses and wrapping his own arms around her, pulling her fully into his embrace. His fingers became tangled in her hair as they began moving in unison, by now this was a well-rehearsed tango. "I can provide that."

"I feel distracted already." She enthused, as she stayed in charge, riding him at her own pace.

Then there was no more talking. No sweet words whispered between lovers. As they would never define themselves as such.

The grunts. The moans. The release.

It was pleasure. Pleasure in its purest form. It could be provided by other means, but it was always more enjoyable when a compatible partner was involved.

Lilah hit her peak, but courteously continued her gallop until Wesley had followed suit.

Climbing off her spent-stallion, Lilah stretched her lengthy limbs and walked lazily to the dresser to find the pack of cigarettes Wesley kept there for just such occasions.

"Rough night, I presume." The man of the house surmised, sliding his hands under his head, but otherwise not moving from his prone position on the bed.

"If that's what you'd call discovering our current existence is a lie." She replied flippantly, lighting her cigarette and inhaling the poison deep into her lungs. "Then, yeah. It's been a rough night."

Aside from cocking his brow, Wesley showed no other outward sign of interest. "Dare I ask?"

"It's an old wound for you." She answered darkly. "But only in the metaphorical sense."

"Lucky for me, metaphors don't bleed." Wesley responded, sitting up and swinging his legs around so he was perched on the side of the bed, facing her directly. "I'll take the bait."

Lilah exhaled a long stream of smoke as she gazed into Wesley's now-curious eyes. "Connor is alive and well, and living nowhere near a hell dimension." She announced, the smugness evident in every one of her molecules. Wesley knew how much she enjoyed reminding him of what a fool his old friends had made him out to be. Maybe it was her way of finding common ground. "Never was. The whole damn thing was a charade for our benefit."

"Are you sure?" Wesley asked measuredly, not allowing himself to be baited without good reason.

"Only 99.8%." She said glibly. "Unlike people, data doesn't lie—and anyway, I've done my due diligence."

"Do you know where he is?" Wesley inquired guardedly, reaching for a pair of sweatpants that were folded beside the bed. He calmly slipped the clothes on, as Lilah continued to stand before him, naked and smoking. She was a beautiful woman to look at. It was a shame her soul was so black.

"According to my top-level team of witches, warlocks, druids and shamans, there's an impenetrable mystical veil in place." She offered the information freely, which meant she definitely had an agenda. "I'm talking _serious_ magic, not something those amateurs could have conjured up from a book. All mystical means of locating the kid have been neutralized—which would make that terribly overpriced Axis of Pythia even more useless than I thought it was in the first place."

"How unfortunate." Wesley deadpanned.

Lilah took a beat, perhaps realizing she had stepped into territory where they'd never see eye-to-eye. Pausing to ash her cigarette, she went back on the offensive. "It must feel pretty shitty. Your so-called _friends_, treating you the same as their sworn enemy."

Wesley didn't react, but he did take the cigarette out of Lilah's hand, staring her down as he took his own drag.

"They didn't, did they?" Lilah deduced, expertly reading him despite how little he'd given away. "Or rather… _she_ didn't." She retrieved her cigarette from Wesley and brusquely extinguished it in the tiny, immaculate ashtray nearby. "You couldn't get the girl, but at least you got her pity."

"Jealousy doesn't look good on you, Lilah." Wesley remarked, turning his back on her and heading to the bedroom door before he inadvertently revealed anything more.

"I'm going to find him." She announced indignantly. "Even the most powerful spell can be broken. It's only a matter of time."

Wesley paused in the doorway. His muscles tensed, but he didn't turn around to face her. "I wouldn't recommend it."

"And I wouldn't recommend warning the good 'n' plenties." She called as he finally proceeded out the door, leaving her alone in the darkness. "It won't change anything."

He would surely _try_ to warn them. It was what a good man would do. And, despite everyone who told him otherwise, Wesley still liked to believe he was one of the good ones.


	8. Spin the Bottle, Part 2

**Spin The Bottle, Part II**

_Champion Surfer Found Drowned In Own Backyard_

Rubbing at his blurry eyes, he squinted down at the ironic headline that stared back at him from the front page of the morning paper. His eyes continued to scan the first paragraph of the article, which went on to note the lack of water in said yard. No pool. No pond. Apparently, not even a watering can.

Truly odd circumstances.

But why was he reading this story to begin with? He usually preferred to read his comic books over breakfast, and judging by the rumbling of his empty stomach, it had to be half past breakfast.

_Riiiiiing!_

He stood bolt upright, inadvertently knocking a mug of coffee to the ground. The telephone beside him rang loudly.

And rang.

And rang.

"Are you as deaf as you are spastic?!" A scathing voice shouted from the other side of a countertop that he now realized he had been leaning against. Looking up, he came face to face with an incredibly beautiful brunette who looked far less impressed with him as he was with her. "Does someone actually pay you to work here…?!"

"Ah… Francis." He supplied his name absently, stumbling back a step and crunching the broken shards of the ceramic mug under his boots. Looking down, he saw coffee stains splattered across an unfamiliar shirt, which matched all the other unfamiliar things he could see at the moment. Such as the unfamiliar woman yelling in his face, the unfamiliar phone ringing beside him, and the unfamiliar everything else in this very big unfamiliar room. "Do we, ah… know each ot'er?"

"Oh, you're foreign. No wonder." The brunette responded, rolling her eyes so far into her skull that he was certain they would get stuck. She raised her voice several decibels as she pointed to the phone, which had since gone silent and spoke as if to a very young—and stupid—child. "Here in America, we pick up the receiver when the telephone goes ringy ringy. Comprende?"

Although, he was still very baffled by his current circumstances, this woman's condescending tone had started to get under his skin. "I know how a phone works. I'm not stupid." He told her defensively. "What I don't know is why I'm here. Or where 'here' is, for that matter." Glancing down at his wrist, he was relieved to see that he was wearing a wristwatch. He was not, however, relieved to see the current time. "Ah, for cryin' out loud. I'm missing maths class! Sister Mary Cat'erine's gonna have me clapping erasers for a month."

The woman only scoffed in reply.

"What?" He wondered, unable to gauge her reaction, but knowing enough to assume she was making fun of him. "Ya never had detention?"

"They couldn't possibly let _you_ near school children." She said derisively. "Much less teach them. Have you seen what you're wearing—those clothes clearly came from a thrift store. Or a _dumpster _behind a thrift store."

"I'm a student." He clarified, not understanding why this lady would think a teenager would be qualified to teach a class. Although, he did happen to think he'd make a mighty fine educator after he completed his studies.

"Whatever you say, _Never Been Kissed_." The woman replied, still sounding wholly unconvinced.

"I've been kissed plenty." He argued, but then realized that proving himself to this stranger wasn't nearly as important as determining his current whereabouts and circumstances. "Who are you? How did I get here? Did I get kidnapped?!"

"I'm Cordelia Chase, dumbass." She replied haughtily. "And you're way too old to be kidnapped. If you can't remember how you got here, it's probably 'cause you just woke up from a bender. If anyone got kidnapped it was me! I'm actually worth something."

"I, too, would like to know how I got here." A stuffy British voice spoke up from across the expansive room. The dark haired man used a planter by the front door to brace himself as he stood up from the floor, where he appeared to have fallen. Once in a standing position, he began to brush off his trousers, resulting in two sharp wooden objects shooting out of his sleeves, nearly puncturing his feet. He screamed in a high-pitched voice, and did an awkward jig, trying to regain control over the concealed weapons. "Aiiiii!"

Cordelia had been observing the absurd display with her jaw slightly agape. "I'm surrounded by foreigners." Her long brown locks swung over her shoulder, as she turned around abruptly to address Francis once again. "Is this a human trafficking ring? Did I get trafficked?!"

"We're in America." Francis assured her, spinning the newspaper on the countertop in her direction, so she could see the title printed at the top. "Los Angeles to be exact."

"Los Angeles, you say?" The British man inquired, pushing the last bit of retractable weaponry back into his sleeve and slowly crossing to the front counter to join them. "That is quite strange. I'm from England, you see."

"You don't say, Princess Diana." Cordelia replied huffily.

"It's Wesley, thank you." He replied, raising his hand to extend in handshake, and then freezing as he remembered the weapons hidden within his sleeves. He carefully lowered his arm, opting instead to square his shoulders and puff his chest. "Wyndham-Pryce. I am from the Watcher's Academy in Southern Hampshire. In fact, I happen to be head boy."

"Oh great, I was just telling Francis, here, how much we need a head boy to go with our case of joint Amnesia." Cordelia snarked.

"I'm from St. Aidan's in Dublin." Francis told the man named Wesley, ignoring Cordelia's rudeness. "And it sounds like all t'ree of us are clueless as to how we got here."

"It is a curious case, indeed. One potentially riddled with imminent danger." Wesley said ominously, his eyes taking in the sprawling lobby around them. "It appears to be a hotel… I suggest we gather as much information on our surroundings as we can. We don't want to do anything rash."

"Yeah, I'm already feeling pretty rashy just standing next to you two, Euro-losers. Count me out of the search and recover operation." Cordelia said flippantly, pushing herself away from the front counter and strutting a few steps in the direction of the front door. "I'm from Sunnydale; I can just call a car service."

She had barely made it two feet when the most revolting creature Francis had ever seen appeared on the main staircase, heading right toward them!

"Hey there, morning glory. What is this glorious palace I've woken up in?" The monster asked gleefully, flashing several rows of brashly white teeth between his dark purple lips, which were offset from the rest of his bright green face. "Do you speak the common tongue, or would you prefer Pylean?"

"Ahhhhhh!" Cordelia screamed, coming up short, turning on her heel and racing back toward Francis and Wesley, both of whom were also screaming.

"Imminent danger!" Wesley shouted, pointing at the creature. "I told you!"

"Don't just stand there screaming like a bunch of sissies! Ruuuuun!" Cordelia shouted, shoving at the two men who had stumbled directly into her escape path.

Francis didn't need to be told twice. He blindly turned and raced down the closest hallway leading away from the front reception area and the horned devil that would surely possess them if it had the chance.

"This way! Follow me!" Wesley called, taking the lead and yanking open a nearby doorway which led up a flight of stairs. He dashed up past the second landing and shrieked once again as he crashed directly into a petite brunette and a tall, muscular black man who had been coming down in the other direction.

"Hey, watch it." The tall man yelled, shoving Wesley back down several steps, causing him to step on Cordelia's foot. She in turn, shouted her objections and pushed Wesley forward again. Francis came up short on the landing below them, throwing a worried glance down to the bottom of the staircase to see if the monster was following them. So far, the coast was clear. "You almost knocked the lady down—I got better manners than you cake eaters?"

"That's ah'right, Mister Gunn." The small woman drawled somewhat nervously.

"Gunn." He corrected her. "Just Gunn."

"I'm sure these nice people didn't mean to almost trample me." She continued, smiling warily as she investigated their attire. "Do y'all happen to have any identification? Government issued, perhaps?"

"I beg your pardon." Wesley replied trying to catch his breath and gripping the railing of the staircase to steady himself. "We haven't time for introductions—there's a demon afoot!"

"A demon?" The small woman squeaked, her already sizable eyes growing wider. "Are you sure it isn't an alien?"

"Where's it at?" Gunn demanded, pushing his way in front of his tiny companion. "I been killing demons my whole life—I got this."

"Yes, as have I." Wesley answered, puffing himself to appear tall, although he was standing several steps below Gunn, who was probably taller anyway. "Or, rather, I should say I've been preparing my whole life to kill demons. I haven't completed my field training as of yet—."

"Ah, if you two exorcists don't mind, I'd really rather continue running for my life." Francis called to the other two men, still nervously eying the doorway below, where he swore he saw a flash of green. "I'm not combat ready!"

"I'm with chicken little here." Cordelia agreed, hitching a thumb at Francis to make it clear that she was referring to him. "And my parents will definitely be suing this hotel, if I get mauled by the Jolly Green Giant!"

"Fair point." Wesley said, gesturing for Gunn and the small woman to head back up the stairs. "It is our duty to protect the innocents, first and foremost. Tally ho!"

"You call me a 'ho' again, English, we gonna have a problem." Gunn replied, nevertheless doing an about face and leading the rag tag group of strangers away from the ravenous beast below.

* * *

"At least I've still got my looks." Cordelia noted, admiring her long voluminous locks in a full-length mirror in one of the hotel's multitude of unoccupied rooms. "As depressing as it is to find that _years_ have been shaved off my precious life, things could have been a lot worse. Bad hair, for example."

Francis grunted as he pushed a hefty wooden dresser in front of the hotel room door. "There." He said, gasping to catch his breath. "That should keep us outta the devil's hands for a little bit longer. A few _Our Father_s wouldn't hurt either."

Clapping the dust off his hands, he rounded a nearby armchair and collapsed within, sighing with relief as he sunk into the soft cushion. He leaned back and closed his eyes, relishing in the moment of relative peace. Since he had "awoken" in this strange place, he'd been chased by a literal demon, forced to take orders from one rather uppity Brit, and verbally abused by one vapid American Princess who cared for nothing aside from the status of her hair.

Maybe he had watched one too many episodes of the _Twilight Zone_ and was having a very intense nightmare. He willed himself to wake up, to save him from—

"Ugh, I can't believe I'm barricaded in a stinky old hotel room with a guy wearing polyester." Cordelia's caustic tone vibrated through his eardrums, causing Francis to sigh and reopen his eyelids. As much as he'd like to pretend this hell he was living wasn't real, all five of his senses told him otherwise. In fact, he felt like the volume—and the stink, for that matter—had been upped considerably, adding to his personal torment.

"When I said I'd stick with the Irish guy, I meant the tall one." She was still preening in front of her mirror image as she whined. "Now that's some salty goodness."

"That Liam fella'?" Francis questioned, furrowing his brow as he considered the other occupant of the hotel they had discovered before deciding to split up and search for clues. He had been a handsome, well-dressed man, who also seemed a bit soft in the head. "Sounded American to me."

"Accent or not, I wouldn't mind being locked in close quarters with those muscles for a while." Cordelia clarified as she continued to toy with her tresses. Francis found himself admiring the view—she was quite an attractive woman in the physical sense. But barely had the pleasant thought crossed his mind, when she opened her mouth to insult him once again. "Even Little Lord Fauntleroy and hair club for men would have been a step up from _you_—at least they pretend to be brave."

Francis shrugged to cover up the instinctive slump of his shoulders. "Not everyone's cut out to be a hero, darlin'. I'm just a regular guy. And I'm not ashamed to hide from danger 'til it goes away."

"You should probably save all the shame for that outfit you're wearing." Cordelia critiqued, finally turning her attention away from her own image to further criticize his. "It doesn't say 'regular guy' as much as 'criminal.'"

"Yeah, well, ya don't exactly strike me as Mother Theresa." Francis rebutted, waving a noncommittal index finger in her general direction. "Wit' your animal-tested makeup and aerosol spray cans—I bet ya don't even recycle."

"Oh please, spare me the bleeding heart act." Cordelia retorted, without missing a beat. "Do you think they were nice to the cow before it got made into your leather boots?"

Francis could have pointed out all the service hours he had done, or all the canned food he'd collected for the poor, but as he stared down at his worn out boots, which she had rightfully identified as leather, he wondered what other clues he was missing about the man he had become. "Y'know, ya may be right." Francis admitted. "I'm not exactly the choirboy I remember. We should check our pockets and such; see what else we can learn about ourselves, yeah?"

"Of course, I'm right." Cordelia asserted, turning back toward her own reflection to give it a closer inspection. "I'm an incredibly astute judge of character. I don't need my memory to know that I still moisturize well, and work out regularly and—oh."

"What?" Francis asked distractedly. He had removed the vintage gold watch from his wrist and was reviewing the inscription he found on the underside.

"I think I'm married… to someone _poor_." She lamented, turning back in his direction and pouting as she wiggled her left ring finger. "My ring is barely even a carat."

Francis was still examining the watch, but he took a moment to inspect his own left ring finger and found his trusty Claddagh ring, pointing inward. "Ah… looks like I'm married, too." He looked back at the inside of his watch and his stomach did a flip-flop as he started to put the incongruous pieces together. Standing slowly from his chair, he looked curiously up at Cordelia, then back at the watch and then back at Cordelia. He took a tentative step in her direction. "Did ya find anything else?"

She rolled her eyes to signify what a waste of time she thought this exercise was, but nevertheless, she reached up to feel the tiny silver chain around her neck. Lifting the necklace that had been partly obscured by her blouse, a tiny glass heart caught the light. Even from his place several feet away, Francis could see a tiny speck of green glinting from within.

"There's something inside my necklace." Cordelia said indifferently. She twisted the tiny ornament so she could see the object better. "It's a… leaf."

His heart caught in this throat, as Francis' suspicions were getting less suspicious and more definite. "A four-leaf clover, yeah?"

"I guess." She huffed, dropping the bauble back under her blouse. "Three leaves, four leaves—it's definitely not from Tiffany's."

"I think the clues are startin' to add up here." Francis proposed, taking a few more reticent steps in her direction. "We were together in the lobby when we found ourselves in this place, both wearing wedding bands, and that necklace looks like somethin' I woulda picked out."

"You and a thousand other guys who couldn't afford anything better." She deflected. "Maybe we should go see if Liam recognizes it."

"Well, then, how d'ya explain this?" He asked, flipping over his wristwatch to reveal the message he had been studying. She glared down at the tiny words etched inside the watch-face, ripping it out of his hand to take a closer look for herself.

_Time is on our side. Love, C.C._

"C.C. can be anyone." Cordelia argued, shutting her eyes against the dawning truth and shoving the watch back into his hand; her fingers lingered over his even as she continued to voice her denial. "Coco Chanel. Cindy Crawford."

"Ah, well now, that's a great theory." Francis quipped. "I'd better be on my way. Don't wanna keep dear Cindy waiting."

"I have a better theory." She announced, opening her eyes and smiling victoriously. "You stole the watch!"

"Or…?" He persisted, without backing down from what was so obviously staring them both in the face.

"This was some kind of couples retreat gone horribly wrong?" She proposed with a tight false smile. "That monster might've eaten my husband—I'd better go check."

"Or… _maybe_ you and I came here together. As a couple." He finally completed his thought, surprised to see a momentary flicker of vulnerability appear beneath her various layers of mean girl attitude. Almost as quickly as it had appeared, she swallowed it back down and served him yet another undeserved tongue-lashing.

"In your dreams, Buster Brown!" She spat at him, balling her hands into fists at her side, and taking her own step toward Francis, so they were nearly nose-to-nose. "If I didn't marry for money, then I must've fallen head over Manolos—and there's no way I could ever love a short, badly dressed, _loser_ like you!"

"I'm not sayin' I exactly relish the thought o' being married to you either, Princess!" Francis sputtered in his own defense. "All ya care about is yourself, and your hair, and how pricey your jewelry is—not my type at all."

"I'm everyone's type!" She yelled back. "And I'm probably the best thing that ever happened to you!"

"Oh, yeah?" He shouted back.

"Yeah!" She returned.

And then they were kissing. Hot, heavy. Lips open, tongues entwined, arms wrapped around each other. His hands in her hair, hers in his. It had happened so abruptly, neither could be certain who had made the first move. They continued to paw at each other for several long seconds, before the necessity for air pulled them apart.

They both stood facing each other, shell-shocked and gasping for breath, wondering what in the _hell_ had just happened.

Unsurprisingly, it was Cordelia who broke the silence, "Okay, maybe I'm starting to see why we'd be married."

"Ah…" Francis grinned bashfully. "Y'know maybe we should keep going, more might come back to us—"

"Oh no!" Her eyes went wide as she stepped arm-distance away, gripping him by the fabric of his shirtsleeves. "I just thought of something."

"What now?" He cringed as he asked a question to which he did not want an answer.

"What if we're having an affair?!" She suggested. "That would explain why that felt so inappropriately _hot_."

"Not good enough to be married to her royal highness, but just fine for committin' adultery." Francis grumbled. "I'll have ya know, I'm not that type o' guy."

"All guys are that type of guy. The blood takes a long detour south before ever reaching your brain." Cordelia countered, letting go of his sleeves and slowly running her hands across the colorful material over his chest. Her eyes followed her fingertips as she continued to speak. "Not that I can blame you for thinking about sex right now. You've got the whole life or death quotient, not to mention the hottie-factor. I mean… look at me."

Francis was looking at her and, although he suspected he wasn't the only person in the room thinking about sex at that precise moment, he also wasn't in a position to argue. Despite all the blood rushing away from his head, a familiar object captured his attention. He caught her hand and held it in his own, inadvertently caressing her soft skin beneath his thumb.

"Hey!" She objected, trying to tug her appendage away from him as if he'd scalded her with his touch. "Just because we sucked face once, doesn't mean it'll ever happen again. I'm not a cheater."

"I told ya, Princess, neither am I." He assured her, gently lifting her ring finger for both of them to admire more clearly. "This here ring on your finger happens to be a Doyle family heirloom."

"Oh," She said, giving the ring another view. This time she appeared to look beyond the modest carat size. "It's vintage?"

Francis found himself chuckling at her tenacity. There was something he found extraordinarily charming about her, even while she was frustrating him to no end. All of which added credence to the theory that she was his wedded wife.

"So, now that we've established you're my lawfully wedded wife, what d'ya say we go back to the catching up bit?" He suggested, waggling his eyebrows invitingly.

Although she was returning his impish smile, she merely patted him on the shoulder in consolation. "I still think we should put the kibosh on any and all sexcapades until after we get our memories back." She took a step away from him, breaking bodily contact. "For all I know, you could be some kind of amnesia-causing-demon who put a whammy on me in order to turn me into your child bride."

"That's just crazy talk." Francis said with an exasperated shake of his head. "When's the last time ya saw a demon with my complexion?"

"You _are_ unnaturally pale." She told him, as if that explained why she thought he may, in fact, be related to the green-faced creature they'd previously encountered. Nodding her head toward the nearby bathroom door, she left him to ponder his disappointment. "I'm gonna go powder my nose."

Alone in the main living area, Francis sauntered over to the full-length mirror that Cordelia had been preening in front of earlier. "Me, a demon." He muttered sarcastically, thinking it was the flimsiest excuse she could have used to avoid another moment of intimacy. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

_Achoo!_

When he looked back at his mirrored reflection, the face that stared back at him was no longer human. The red demon eyes—that apparently belonged to him—widened in horror, behind the endless rows of quills.

"Ah… that can't be good."


	9. Spin the Bottle, Part 3

**Spin the Bottle, Part III**

The demon made of smoke and secrets lurked in the darkness, blinking his blood-red eyes against the inky black backdrop of night. It had been his duty for half a year to visit the Hyperion Hotel, keeping tabs on those who dwelled within its vast walls. By now, he knew every nook and cranny of the timeworn structure. He knew every shadow. Every secret.

Each night he would look in on his charges and report back to the others who worshipped his Master. There had been little to note since the vessel's celebrated return. There were still two where there should be only one. Still zero where there should be another.

Still meddlers trying to block their path.

It was tired of delivering bad tidings. Full of missing pieces and tedious delays.

Tonight felt different. Tonight the stench of magic hung in the air. Strong magic. Potent magic. Chaos magic. The demon had sensed it even before witnessing the strange happenings on the inside of the hotel.

On the uppermost floors of the building, the vampire was stalking its prey. Perhaps, that wasn't atypical for most vampires, but for the one with the soul, it was considered abnormal behavior. Especially since its prey was one of the humans that cohabitated in this place—the female. She was frightened, but resourceful. Building traps to slow down her hunter. Biding her time until help arrived.

…which it would not, because the only potential rescuers were bumbling and bickering their way through the mid-section of the hotel. Apparently, they strongly disagreed on the most efficient way to find and kill the defenseless demon who did not belong in this dimension. And so, they came nowhere close to doing either.

Much to the relief of the demon who had been cowering under the lobby staircase for quite some time.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!" The high-pierced scream of the vessel penetrated the glass plate windows as she came barreling into view. She skidded to a stop a few feet from the front reception counter, looking left and then right. Spotting a door that the watchman knew to be a closet, she opened it and dashed inside, shutting the door securely behind her.

A moment later, the Brachen half-breed came jogging into the picture, looking more out-of-breath than any demon should be. Most likely a curse of the human blood that soiled his demon physiology. He leaned forward, grasping his knees as he came to a stop in front of the vessel's hiding place. "Hey, would ya please stop running and just let me explain?!" He shouted into the empty space around him. "Not that I have an explanation, on account o' the damn amnesia!"

He stood up straight, his breathing having returned to normal with only a brief moment's rest—proving that he did, in fact, possess some degree of demon stamina. "Ah, this must be hell, yeah?" He spoke aloud, but addressed only himself. "Patrick O'Malley was right—God did punish me for all that wanking."

_SLAM! _

The vessel had flung open the closet door and slammed it into the spikey face of the unsuspecting half-breed. He stumbled backward as the heavy wooden door made an impact. "Take that!" She cried, taking a swing at him with a long wooden stick. It made a connection, knocking him sideways to the floor. "And that!" She yelled again, swinging downward so hard that a distinct "crack" could be heard as the wooden object connected with the top of the Brachen's skull.

The half-breed fell limply to the floor, and lay in a heap at the vessel's feet. Still brandishing her weapon, she cautiously poked at his abdomen with the tip of her shoe, assuring that he wasn't playing possum. Seeing no response from her would-be attacker, her body relaxed and a wide, satisfied grin crossed her lips. "That's what you get for messing with Cordelia Chase!" She smarted off at the unconscious half-demon before her. "I'm no demon's fool… _or bride_!"

Turning away from the Brachen, who still lay motionless, her eyes scanned the rest of the lobby, searching for someone else. They quickly acquired their target—the demon under the stairs, the one who had been quivering there, hoping not to be seen. "You want some of this?!" She asked, twirling her long wooden stick like a beau staff, and seeming awfully pleased with herself as she did so. "Look at me. I've got skills."

"Please… please no." The demon begged, backing away from her, deeper into the shadows. "I'm just a little lost, that's all." He shut his eyes tightly and recited an incantation under his breath. "There's no place like home. There's no place like home."

"Cordelia!" One of the male humans called to the vessel by her given name, taking her attention off the cowering demon. The man raced down the main staircase, rushing to her side. He was the one that spoke accented English. The one who no longer belonged there. "Thank goodness you're alright. What happened to Francis?"

Behind him was the bigger male human, the one who was built to fight. He spotted the heap of Brachen on the floor. "Looks like a giant porcupine ate him and stole his clothes."

"That porcupine _is_ Francis." Cordelia corrected, turning back to the demon she had previously felled.

"Oh, dear." The Englishman exclaimed, cautiously stepping closer to inspect the fallen creature. "It's much worse than I thought—the demons are hidden amongst us. Taking on human personas. Gaining our trust only to stab us in the back!"

"Or bite us in the neck." The bigger man answered, far less shocked to find out that their human comrade was actually a demon in disguise. He nodded at the vessel, admiring her handiwork. "If we split up again, I'm with her this time."

"How about instead of splitting up, we just split?" Cordelia suggested, tossing the wooden stick to the ground with a loud clatter and marching several decisive steps toward the front doors. "I've already lost who-knows-how-many years of my life to this godforsaken place; I'm not losing one more second."

"Wait. What about Liam and Fred?" The Englishman cried after her, referring to the vampire and his prey several stories above them. "We can't just abandon them. There's still a demon on the loose!"

"It's under the stairs." Cordelia called as she made her way to the front door.

The Englishman and the big man, both whirled around to see the cowering demon, who gave them a small, nervous smile and a wave. "Hey, there. I don't suppose we could work this out like gentlemen, huh?"

"We get him on three." The big man instructed, receiving an affirming nod from the lanky Englishman. They flanked the demon, and began their approach, each one carrying a makeshift weapon.

By now, the vessel had placed her hand on the knob that would lead her to freedom. And as soon as the door swung open, she froze in place, wobbling ever so slightly.

The night watchman felt it, too. The bubble had burst. The magic was rapidly dissipating.

The vessel tottered in place, lifting her hands to her head as she tried to steady herself. "What the...?"

"Ooooh…uuuugh." The half-demon on the ground groaned as he slowly began to stir.

The two human males also seemed disorientated, blinking rapidly as their surroundings began to take on a more familiar context. Their eyes met and they stared at each other silently, several shades of emotion coloring each of their faces.

"Wesley?" The cowering demon asked, emerging from his hiding place under the stairs. "What are you doing here?"

"I…I… came to warn you." The one called Wesley stuttered an uncertain reply. He lifted the weapon he held in his hand, looking at it with unease.

"Oh no! Doyle!" Cordelia shrieked, regaining her bearings and racing across the room to assist the half-breed who rubbed at his lumpy head. "Doyle … can you hear me…?"

The shadowy demon retreated. The spell had been broken. The vessel—fragile as her human body was—remained unscathed. The half-breed would surely survive his injuries. The vampire had never been in danger. Even the other insignificant creatures, had all endured the chaos and lived to tell the tale.

Now, it was the night watchman's duty to bring these new tidings to the others. Tidings of a careless enchantment perpetrated by the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart.

Oh, how the Master loathed them and their legions of sycophants.

_Lawyers_. That's what they called themselves in this dimension. They were the worst kind of meddlers. Sure, they had a part to play in the Master's grand plan, as did all beings great and small. But, they had blundered the creation of the Destroyer and repeatedly put the vessel's life in jeopardy.

They had become a liability. An unnecessary risk.

The night watchman scurried faster, seeking the ears of his brethren. _It was time_, it would tell them. Time to stop posturing, and let the Master's will be done.

To rid this world of all its meddlers. The lawyers. The champions.

The humans.

* * *

Shuffling through the front door of his dimly lit apartment, Wesley sensed that someone was there even before he spotted the human-shaped figure on his couch.

"Would it help if I apologized?" Lilah asked as she reached up and flipped on the lamp beside her; it cast her in an unnatural glow in the otherwise dark room. Ironic, since he was rather certain she was the very embodiment of darkness and deceit. "Because I _am_ sorry you were dragged into this blunder."

"Don't insult me, Lilah." Wesley responded, tossing his jacket aside as he stepped further into his apartment, not bothering to close the door behind him. "I haven't the energy, seeing how I spent most of the day thinking myself a feckless teenager."

Lilah uncrossed her legs and stood from the couch, slowly approaching Wesley. "Obviously, that wasn't the intention. There must've been a failsafe in place to protect the kid's location."

"Lorne was nearly killed." Wesley told her in a grave tone. "By my hand."

"Killing demons is something you do regularly." Lilah pointed out with a dismissive shrug. "And considering Lorne was part of the good ole gang who left you for dead, I wouldn't beat yourself up over his almost-demise."

"Did I ever tell you that as a student at the Watcher's Academy, I excelled in spells and potions?" He ignored her rebuttal, pulling a small purple-flowered twig from his pocket and holding it out to her in the palm of his hand. "That's how I can identify this as Lethe's Bramble, often used in memory spells. But, I'm sure you know all this, which is why you put it in my pocket."

"It was just some lighter fluid on an already burning flame." Lilah confessed, without the slightest hint of remorse. "The spell would've happened whether or not you decided to join the party. I saw an opportunity to expedite things, and I took it."

"Ah, I see. So, it was only a backup set up." Wesley said facetiously. "A poorly executed one at that. Perhaps, I shouldn't feel betrayed."

"I told you not to bother warning them." Lilah reminded him.

"And you knew I'd do it anyway." Wesley pointed out.

"You have free will—I have women's intuition." She replied.

"What is your women's intuition telling you now?" Wesley asked as he tilted his head toward the conspicuously open front door.

Lilah smiled ever-so-slightly as she took his meaning. A wistful smile that conveyed neither disappointment nor contrition appeared on her lips as she glided past him. "You'll miss me."

* * *

"How bad does it hurt?!" Cordelia called from the kitchen, as she pawed through the freezer looking for a package of frozen peas she'd bought just for such an occasion. Procuring the ice-cold veggies, she slammed the door and treaded back to the living room, settling down beside Doyle on the couch. "On a scale of a hangover to the mother of all visions?"

He took her frozen offering. "It's not that bad." He assured her, involuntarily wincing as he placed the frozen object gingerly over the top of his skull. "Ya could've assaulted me with somethin' far more lethal than janitorial supplies, yeah?"

"Well, it's a good thing teenage-me wasn't so skilled with the swordplay." She agreed contritely. "But, seriously, Doyle—what possessed you to go all demon-face? When we first met, you hid your demon half from me for, like, _ever_. Which, under the circumstances, would've been a wise choice."

"Believe me, Princess. It wasn't a choice at all." Doyle clarified. "One sneeze and it was like the first time all over again—discovering I was a demon, not knowing how to control it. That was far more traumatizing than my wife clubbin' me with a mop handle, which let's face it, is probably long overdue."

She laughed at his self-deprecating humor even as she sidled up closer to him. Lightly running her fingers through the back of his fluffy dark hair, she felt the droplets of cold water that had trickled from the makeshift ice-pack on his head. "Okay… but if all it takes is a sneeze to bring on the spikes, then why does it take so much skill to shake them off? Is it because—you know—_the brain damage_?"

It was Doyle's turn to laugh at Cordelia's attempt to be tactful. Mostly because it was anything but. Which was only one of the many things he absolutely loved about her.

"It's always been easier to go from human to demon, Princess." Doyle tapped on the side of his temple. "But yeah, the visions made it harder."

"Hmmm." Cordelia acknowledged, tilting her head thoughtfully as she inspected his currently very human face. "So, you never really went back to normal, huh? Even without the visions constantly nuking your brain cells. Could've fooled me."

"Well, not having 'em's certainly slowed things down." Doyle demurred. "I'm only a _little_ more demon than I was a few years ago."

"In your head." Cordelia pointed out; her meaning was both literal and figurative. "_And_ in my bed." She added as she slowly slid one leg across his lap, and positioned herself in a straddle.

"Ah, is that how it is?" He chuckled, tossing the melty frozen peas aside. The bag paused mid-air and floated back toward the freezer, compliments of their incorporeal roommate. Doyle and Cordelia hardly noticed. "After the day we've had, I'd really rather make love to ya wearing this face, darlin'."

"I still prefer this face." Cordelia allowed, leaning down to kiss his lips slow and sensuously before sitting back to lift her blouse over her head. She tossed it on the floor and reached behind her to unclip her lacey bra as well. "Less chafing."

His eyes drank her in first and then his hands followed suit, sliding up the smooth skin of her naked back. "You're the reason, y'know."

"For your latest concussion?" Cordelia guessed, sliding her own arms around his neck and pushing her bare breasts against the fabric of his shirt.

"That..." He agreed, giving her a heartfelt grin. "_And_ the reason I'm so well-adjusted. Thanks to your humanizing influence."

"You're welcome." She cooed, lightly grinding herself against his lower body. "Face it, Doyle. I'm the only one who can withstand your _demonizing_ influence."

"Ah… I'm fairly certain your demon ways have nothin' to do with me, yeah?" Doyle teased, gripping her by the bottom and grunting with effort as he stood up, lifting her off the couch along with him. He wobbled momentarily, but managed to maintain his balance. "Today was proof o' that."

"Are you trying to pick a fight?" She wondered, narrowing her eyes at him.

Doyle grinned up at her, guilty as charged. "Why don't ya tell me what ya think o' my shirt?"

"Oh, this shirt is soooo ugly…" She acquiesced, wrapping her legs around him in a vise grip and starting to yank at the buttons. "I feel it's my duty to rip it off!"

* * *

**A/N- Thanks for your review, FlickerFlame8. Since it's possible that other readers might have the same question, I figured I'd answer it publicly... that is, of course, if this chapter didn't already make the answer clear. ;) **

**In the original series, Lorne performed a spell on Cordelia in order to attempt to restore her memories. He remained immune to the spell, probably because he cast it. In my story, Wolfram & Hart put a spell on the entire gang, searching their missing memories for Connor's secret location. Basically, I completely reinvented the circumstances of having a memory-spell-gone-wrong, just so I could write a teenage Cordy/Doyle scene. Guilty as charged!**

**As always thank you to all my readers for sticking with this thing. So far the chapters have come steadily, but I apologize if things slow down from here on out. Please know that I'm still doing my best to get these chapters written/edited/perfected as quickly as possible. My schedule is a bit crazy at the moment, but I still have A LOT of story to tell and I definitely intend to tell it! **


	10. Apocalypse Nowish

**3\. ****Apocalypse Nowish**

_Squeak. Squeak. Squeeaak._

The sound of the black marker against the white board reverberated in the otherwise silent lobby. Doyle stood with his back to his humble audience, adding to the list of key words he had previously scribbled across the empty space.

_Rain of Fire. Beast. Kills Ra-Tet. No more sun. _

All the words he could think of to describe what he had seen in that portentous vision from years past. The one that still haunted him, in dreams especially. He had never gone into much detail before; he had never wanted to.

At the very bottom he wrote: _Birth_.

That last word he underlined. Twice. Then he took a step back and replaced the cap on his dry-erase marker.

"We can assume the memory spell was just the beginning of whatever Wolfram & Hart—or other interested party—has cooked up to set things, ah, _wrong_." Doyle announced, turning around to make sure his "class" was reviewing the material he had written out for their benefit. "Any questions?"

A vibrant green hand shot into the air, attached to the only remaining day-drinker of the household. "Back up to the part where the stone-age beastie slaughters every living thing at _Evil, Incorporated_, including their ancient, preternatural conduit to the Senior Partners." Lorne paused to slurp from his pink ice-filled beverage. "Doesn't that make them—and I gag on the words—our allies on this one particular issue?"

"I wouldn't put it past the Senior Partners to sacrifice a few hundred human employees in order to co-sign the apocalypse." Angel argued. The vampire stood to the right of the white board, arms folded across his chest as he contemplated Doyle's ominous list.

"They might look the other way, yeah. But they'd be dead wrong if they think they can control what comes out of Pandora's Box." Doyle reasoned, tapping his marker against the title phrase written at the very top of the board: _The_ _Power That Was_.

It was Fred's hand that was raised next, slightly more hesitantly than Lorne's. She was seated on one side of her Pylean comrade, while Gunn was slumped on the demon's other side. The three of them comprised the most diverse classroom Doyle could have ever imagined. Ditto for the material.

"Ah… Fred." Doyle called on her.

"If this Power That _Is_ has been sending visions, then haven't we been doing its dirty work all along?" She wondered. "Getting rid of the competition?"

"Yeah—sounds like we got duped by the big bad from day one." Gunn grumbled. At the sound of his voice, Fred turned to look in Gunn's direction and the two shared a commiserating, yet uncomfortable, glance before each turned back to Doyle.

"Ah… I wouldn't put it that way." Doyle responded uncertainly. The truth was, he had never really questioned the inherent goodness of the Higher Powers, even knowing all he knew about the very, very _bad_ one. Perhaps, that made him a fool. To think he could diligently follow the orders handed down by the collective PTB, all the while subverting the plans of one of them.

One that had been watching and waiting for millennia. Plotting and planning since the dawn of man.

One that was still up there. Still watching. Still plotting.

"Not to be a buttinsky…" Lorne butted in, taking Doyle out of the self-inflicted hot seat. "Generally speaking, the guys upstairs don't see themselves as good or evil. They aim to balance the scales. Lucky for us, there's a lot of evil in this world."

"How's that lucky for us?" Gunn side-eyed the demon seated beside him.

"It's the reason the Powers That Be are on our side." Angel presumed, receiving an affirming "cheers" from Lorne, who then went back to sipping from his pink, alcoholic beverage. "The Powers are good because the world needs them to be."

"Most of 'em, anyway." Doyle took back the floor, once again gesturing to the words written in black ink. "This here is a rogue entity. Safe to say, its idea of 'balancing the scales' differs from the rest by a considerable margin."

"Zero is an even number." Fred considered. "One could argue that eliminating both sides is the only way to achieve lasting balance… I mean, someone who _isn't_ me could argue that. Personally, I prefer for the world to exist."

"It would sure suck for business if it didn't." Cordelia chirped, popping out from behind the reception area and clacking her discounted designer heels across the tiled floor as she made her way over to the group's makeshift classroom area. She waved a slip of paper in the air as if it were bait. "Some guy in East L.A. has snakes in his bedroom in a supposedly-not-kinky way. Going once, going twice…"

"Are they demon snakes?" Angel queried.

"They could be." Cordelia hedged.

"Do we do regular snakes?" Gunn wondered.

"We don't." Angel clarified, giving Cordelia a warning look.

"When I asked if they made weird demony noises, he said 'kinda'." Cordelia asserted, handing Gunn the rectangular post-it on which she had written the details. "You can use your axe."

Gunn frowned down at the glorified exterminator's job he'd just been handed. "Least it's not rats." Without further objection, he got up off the couch and sauntered away to retrieve his favorite weapon.

"If they really are demon snakes he'll need backup." Cordelia added. "Fred? You mind?"

"Um… oh." Fred looked rattled by the suggestion, squirming in her seat until she finally nodded. "Sure. I'll just… go. With Charles." She stood and scurried off to grab her own weapon.

Cordelia gave Angel a pointed look as she turned on her heel and clacked her way back toward her desk, leaving Doyle with only one remaining student and a somewhat perturbed vampire boss.

"Well, if that's the end of today's lesson, Professor, I'll just be upstairs drowning myself in lavender bubbles." Lorne proclaimed, rising from his own seat and sashaying past his demon companions. "Never mind the apocalypse, after sitting between those two for the past hour, I feel like my heart's in my _chest_, rather than my ass where it belongs." He gave Doyle an affectionate pat on the leather-clad shoulder as he passed. "Riveting stuff. Really. Sign me up for the next one, if we aren't all dead by then."

Angel gave Doyle a half-grimace, which passed as a smile. "At least everyone's on the same page now."

"Right." Doyle agreed, plunking his marker down into the tray at the bottom of the board, "the page where the-world-as-we-know-it ends. Y'know, I didn't miss being the bearer of bad news."

"We all have to bear it." Angel answered, giving his friend a reassuring nod and then stealing away to do whatever he did while the sun was still shining brightly through their windows.

Doyle stood alone and sighed. Delivering predictions of death and destruction was considerably easier without a migraine, but it still took a toll.

As Fred and Gunn silently trudged past him, leaving a trail of tension in their wake, Doyle's focus fell to the only person present whose name actually appeared on the white-board-of-doom. She also happened to be the only member of the team who was conspicuously absent from the presentation.

As he ambled around the reception counter, he saw Cordelia's head bowed over an oversized glossy magazine, which was sprawled atop the usual pile of unpaid bills that littered her desk. She was rather engrossed in a full-page spread of what appeared to be… some very _nice_ looking houses. Managing to rip her eyes off the page as Doyle made his approach, she flashed him a sassy grin. "Oh, is it recess already?" She leaned her elbows on the open magazine, propping her chin on her hands. "Wanna go make out under the bleachers?"

"Ya may wanna take this a little more seriously, Cordy." He chided her, gesturing to the densely worded white board he'd left behind. "You're a featured player."

"Yeah, I got the gist, thanks." She said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Fire, brimstone, another demon wanting to borrow my uterus. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda." Her eyes narrowed as she had a new thought, "Be honest. Am I giving off some kind of demon pheromone that I don't know about?"

"It's not a demon." Doyle corrected her, sighing heavily as he slumped into the open chair that sat on the far side of her desk. "It's a being from the higher plane. You should've been paying attention."

"I heard enough." She promised. Opening her top drawer, she took out a red marker and casually circled something on the open magazine sprawled before her. "Excuse me for prioritizing the _actual_ future over the one that's been wiped from existence."

"And just what does our future hold?" Doyle wondered, tilting his head to try and see what she had circled. "Ah, a three-bedroom in Franklin Hills. With a lot more zeroes than our paychecks can handle, yeah?"

"It's good sense to keep our eyes on the market." Cordelia clarified, finally closing the magazine and revealing it to be a _Los Angeles Real Estate_ catalogue.

He stared incredulously at the brochure as if she'd used it to smack him upside the head. "This is what's so important ya couldn't pull yourself away?!" He sputtered with frustration. "After all we've been through; I thought you'd at least be a _little_ curious to hear the big apocalyptic reveal. Especially considering how much of it pertains to _you_!"

"For starters—_because_ _of all we've been through_, none of that stuff is going to happen." She replied calmly, giving him her full-undivided attention. "You already changed everything, Doyle."

"Well, you have a lot more confidence in me, than I do, darlin'." He said with exasperation.

"I always have." She agreed, bobbing her head for emphasis. "But for argument's sake, let's recap: I'm not now, nor have I ever been a demon. I vacationed in Ireland this summer instead of the Higher Plane. And nowhere in the weather forecast does it say rain-of-fire. Not to mention, I haven't been with anyone other than you in the last three years, so unless _you_ are the missing baby-daddy from the equation, I think it's safe to assume I won't be giving birth to the anti-christ anytime soon. Was there anything I missed?"

"A'right, maybe ya did hear enough." Doyle answered with resignation. He had conveniently omitted the name of the baby's father from his retelling of the-future-that-wasn't. That particular piece of information was a little too controversial and currently irrelevant. Not to mention how uncomfortable it would make both Cordelia and Angel for equally good reason.

The idea of Cordelia bedding Angel's son still made Doyle's skin crawl; it didn't help that he had the image burned into his grey matter.

"What we _should_ be worrying about is Connor." Cordelia continued, as if reading his thoughts.

"Huh?" He asked nervously. "W-why would ya say that?"

"_Hello_. Because Lilah Morgan recently tried to siphon his secret location out of our memories." She reminded him, and then shook her own head. "And you say that I'm the one who's not paying attention."

"Yeah, that's, ah… definitely a concern." Doyle agreed sinking deeper into his chair with relief.

"So, do I pass?" Cordelia asked, fluttering her lashes in a mock-flirtatious manner.

"Head o' the class." He assured her, trying to muster up a convincing grin. It was hard to even half-flirt while he was having bad vision flashbacks.

"Hmm, too bad." She replied, running a finger over her décolletage. "I was gonna offer to do some extra credit."

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

He was saved by the sound of her watch alarm.

Dropping her seductress act, she looked down at the time. "I'll need an extension." She said apologetically, swiveling out of her desk chair. "I've got plans."

"Plans?" Doyle echoed the foreign word and sat up a little straighter. "What kinda plans?"

"I'm having lunch with Kelly." Cordelia responded as she stuffed her oversized real estate brochure into her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder. "We're overdue for some girl talk."

"About real estate?" Doyle questioned.

"I'm a married woman now." Cordelia explained, without actually explaining anything.

"I'm aware." Doyle responded, arching a brow in place of the many questions he currently had.

"Don't get your boxers in a bunch, Doyle. I'm not delusional enough to think we can afford a house, when we can barely make rent." Cordelia elaborated. "But, Kelly and Ben can. And she's definitely going to brag about it. Sue me, for trying to keep up appearances."

"Sounds like that Kelly's a lucky girl." Doyle replied, backing off his inquisition. "She gets a house _and_ a husband who doesn't nag her about the world ending."

"She's not as lucky as me." Cordelia assured him, leaning down to give him a sweet kiss on the lips before she flounced toward the front doors and disappeared into the noonday sun.

After she had left, it slowly dawned on Doyle that Cordelia had artfully saddled him with desk duty. _Well played_, the thought to himself as he rose from his chair and resettled into her more comfortable chair. Spotting the L.A. Times beneath the mound of bills on her desk, Doyle grabbed the paper, wheeled the chair backwards, and lifted his feet to rest on the edge of her desk. As he settled in to find his favorite crossword puzzle and wait for the phone _not_ to ring, the grim headline gave him pause.

_Mother Charged in Drowning of Toddler._

Feeling his stomach turn, he, nevertheless, found himself poring over the rest of the article's gruesome details as silent alarm bells blared in his brain. Not the visceral alarm bells that signaled an incoming vision, but the more subtle awareness that he probably _should_ have had one.

And then a more unsettling thought struck him even harder…

If he still had his visions, this may have never happened.

* * *

Cordelia placed the mug of piping hot tea down next to the man who'd been noticeably loitering in the front courtyard all evening. It was well past business hours and although Gunn was an occupant of the hotel, it was still rather unusual for him to be dawdling on the outskirts of the premises when he could be anywhere else, enjoying his free time.

Looking first at Cordelia who sat beside him, then down at her steamy offering, Gunn shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm good."

"Oh, this?" She said, lifting the tea to her own lips and blowing softly before she took a cautious sip. "This is for me. It's chilly out tonight."

"You didn't have to come out here." Gunn pointed out with a skeptical arch to his brow.

"Well, how else am I going to get you to open up and talk about your feelings?" She asked rhetorically, wrapping herself tightly in the woolen shawl she was grateful to have brought outside with her. "You'd better tell me what's bothering you fast, or it'll be your fault when I catch pneumonia."

"Nothing's bothering me." Gunn grumbled, hunching over so that his elbows balanced on his knees and his head tilted away from her. He seemed more than a little bothered.

"Do you still have the teen-amnesia?" She inquired, crossing her legs and taking another sip of her warm beverage. "Because, nice to meet you, I'm Cordelia."

"Cordy, I ain't out here brooding like… Angel." Gunn insisted. "I'm just waiting—"

"For Fred. I know." Cordelia assessed the situation for exactly what she knew it to be. "She's been gone a while now."

"She needed some air." Gunn replied.

"If it isn't airy enough right here, then your bedroom must be downright suffocating." Cordelia remarked, alluding to the many times Fred had gone absent in recent memory.

Gunn's already grumpy expression grew three shades grumpier. "Is this your idea of helping? 'Cause it sounds like you're rubbing it in that my girl can't stand to be in the same room as me."

"I'm not rubbing anything." Cordelia promised, pausing to tilt her head after the awkward phrasing had already left her lips. "Okay, admittedly, that sounded wrong. So, now I _am_ rubbing something—see, this is me rubbing your shoulder and trying to be a good friend." She reached out and gave his shoulder a compassionate squeeze. "I'm here for you, Gunn. Just like you were there for me when Doyle and I broke up."

"Fred and I aren't broken up." Gunn answered.

"Just circling the drain." Cordelia countered bluntly.

That declaration gave Gunn pause. He shifted uncomfortably, shrugging Cordelia's hand off his shoulder in the process. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think I know a little something." She argued, wrapping both hands around her tea mug as another chill crept under her shawl. "Once upon a time, Doyle and I did a very similar dance… right before our relationship imploded."

"So, what you're saying is we're doomed." Gunn interpreted glumly.

"Heck no." Cordelia responded. "I'm saying you need to work things out before you get to the point of no return!"

"Yeah, well, I need her to be here to do the work." Gunn lamented. "Kinda why I've been sitting here waiting."

"Right." Cordelia relented, hunching over so her own elbows rested on her knees, mirroring Gunn's position. "I guess it's Fred who needs my advice."

There was a long pause, before Gunn finally threw her a bone. "I'll take it, if you got it."

"Don't stop waiting." Cordelia ardently advised. "Fred might need some space, but not so much that she thinks you've stopped caring. And, whatever you do, don't give up on her."

"I ain't the one giving up." Gunn swore. "I love that woman with all my heart and soul. She's it for me. I just… don't think she feels that way about me anymore."

"She's been crazy about you ever since she stopped being _actually_ crazy." Cordelia laughed. "That doesn't change overnight."

"But it can change." Gunn worried. "If someone did something—if that changed how the other person sees them…"

"Look again." Cordelia insisted. "Fred's the same person you fell in love with."

"You got it backwards." Gunn clarified.

"Oh." Cordelia realized her error. She sat back, biting her lip. "_Oh_."

"Yeah. Oh." Gunn repeated morosely. "Now you know why she can barely look at me."

"I get it now." Cordelia agreed. "She's probably too busy feeling guilty for being the _reason_ you did it, to even consider how you feel."

"How do I get her to stop?" Gunn wondered.

Cordelia looked at him sympathetically. "Start by forgiving yourself. The rest is up to her."


	11. Habeas Corpses, Part 1

**3\. Habeas Corpses, Part I**

The house was old and careworn, but pleasant nevertheless. Nestled among the treetops, and only accessible by the spider web of narrow roads that were scattered across the hillside, it felt like an escape from L.A., despite its relatively central location. And the view… well, the view was nothing short of spectacular.

"The floors need to be redone, of course." The real estate agent admitted, as her sensible shoes glided across the water-damaged floorboards of the quaint living room. "But what it lacks in polish, it more than makes up for in charm."

Cordelia followed closely in the agent's footsteps, giving the damaged floor only a cursory glance on her way to admiring the spectacular beams of light that shone through a set of French doors. "Is that a pool?" She asked excitedly. "The listing didn't mention a pool."

She turned to Doyle, who lagged several steps behind, flashing him a wide grin with her brows raised eagerly. It reminded him of the first time she'd seen her current apartment—she'd been so overjoyed to finally find a home that suited her that she'd beamed and twirled and thrown her arms around him in celebration. He smiled back at her out of reflex, even as his eyes were sucked right back down to the rotted floorboards that groaned and creaked beneath his feet.

"Oh, yes. It's our little show-stopper!" The agent answered brightly, expertly opening the double doors to present the charming exterior patio to her visitors. "Perfect for those long summer days trying to beat the L.A. heat." She proclaimed, leading her modest parade out onto the stucco deck that featured a few worn-out pieces of outdoor furniture and a sizable pair of palm trees. "It needs a few repairs before it can be filled, but nothing that will break the bank."

"I love this yard!" Cordelia enthused to the agent, once again turning to flash an excited smile at Doyle. "Isn't this an incredible find?!"

"Yeah, ah… incredible." Doyle responded with only a quarter as much enthusiasm as his wife. He had made his way to the French doorway, but his eyes stayed glued to the floorboards, and then slowly began to travel up the molding and finally made their way to the ceiling. Every piece of the house bore some noticeable degree of water damage. He tilted his head with concern. "How's the plumbing in this place?"

When he received no answer, Doyle turned around to see that Cordelia and the agent had moved to the far side of the empty pool, and were animatedly discussing the generous amount of light that shone into a nearby bedroom window. "Just perfect for a nursery," he heard the agent say.

The statement was met with vigorous nodding on Cordelia's part. "That's just what I was thinking!" She responded.

"Nursery?" Doyle repeated, taking a few uncertain steps further onto the patio.

_Glug, glug, glug._

It was the distinct sound of water that caught Doyle's attention. He turned away from the two women, who continued to chatter in the distance and looked down into the empty pool at his feet.

Or… it _had_ been empty when he'd first stepped outside. At least, he thought it had been empty. But clearly he had been mistaken because it was more than half full, with the water level continuing to rise at a rapid rate.

"What the…?" He stared down at the murky-looking water that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere; his heart began to beat faster in his chest. _Glug, glug, glug._ It was still rising. With no indication of where it was coming from.

As Doyle bent over to get a better view, he noticed something else. There was something moving beneath the water's surface. From his vantage point, through the churning waves, it looked like a shadow. Doyle looked up at the sky overhead to see if, perhaps, the shadowy optical illusion was caused by a bird or a cloud. But, seeing nothing but sunny sky, he looked back down at the water below—

_Fwoosh! Splash! Blurgh!_

He was in the water! Dragged under by the unseen shadow creature that was weighing him down to the bottom.

Down.

Down.

Kicking and thrashing, Doyle clawed desperately at the liquid molecules around him, as if they would somehow give him traction to climb back up to the water's surface. Bubbles burst from his lungs as he screamed into the abyss, hoping that Cordelia would hear his silent calls for help.

She wouldn't. She couldn't. There was nothing to hear. And he was only sinking deeper.

His lungs burned with emptiness. And then they began to refill, with something other than air.

Still, down he went, the water sinking with him. Moving farther and farther away from the pool's edge.

This would be his end, he knew. He'd be discovered at the bottom of an empty pool, in a house he would never own, next to a nursery that he would never fill.

Just like all those others.

"Doyle!" Cordelia's voice called to him, sounding very far away. Her face hovered over him, just above the water's surface and he saw her reach for him. She was so close, and yet, so far. Even so, he reached back, even as things started to go black. "Doyle! Wake up!"

His eyes shot open and he sat straight up with a jolt, knocking something large and heavy off his lap and onto his foot. "Ugggh!" He groaned as his socked feet took the full weight of the object.

"Are you okay?" Cordelia asked with concern. She was still hovering over him, her forehead creased with worry lines. She was wearing pajamas. "You were making all sorts of weird noises."

It took him a moment to get his bearings. He wasn't drowning in a pool in some strange house. He was seated in a familiar armchair in his very own living room. The large object that had just crushed his toes was The Hogarth Compendium of Elemental Entities, which he had borrowed from Angel's collection and spent the better part of the night perusing.

"Ah… bad dream." He explained, leaning down to massage the pain out of his injured appendages.

"Must've been some dream." Cordelia noted. "Clover was so freaked out, she came and woke me up. Lassie-style."

Doyle looked up and came nose to nose with the troubled feline who was perched on the arm of his chair, eyeing him precariously. "Sorry, girl." He said to her, patting her furry head reassuringly. "I'm fine, promise."

"It's almost four a.m." Cordelia grumbled, leaning down to retrieve the hefty book that had tumbled to the ground. "What is all this?" She asked, referring not only to the ancient tome, but also the various piles of paper that currently littered their coffee table.

"Just something I'm working on." Doyle evasively answered, taking the book out of her hands and placing it atop one of the nearby piles.

"We don't have any cases." Cordelia reminded him.

"It's not a case." Doyle responded as he slowly rose from his chair and stretched his achy limbs. Disrupted by his movement, Clover leapt to the ground and scurried away. "At least, not yet. I'm thinking it should be."

Cordelia selected several pages from the top of each pile and began to read the boldly printed headlines aloud. "_Missing Lifeguard's Body Discovered in Hollywood Reservoir._ _Priest's Death Ruled Accidental Drowning by Holy Water. _" She lifted her eyes, scanning the other drowning-related headlines visible on Doyle's assortment of news articles. "While tragic, I really don't think a lack of water safety is our domain."

"Ya have to read more than the headlines, Princess." Doyle instructed her, pointing to the smaller text on one of the pages she was holding. "For example, that priest didn't actually drown in Holy Water. He was found in an _empty_ Baptismal font. In a locked church. No signs of struggle."

"So, he what? Had a heart attack and they went with the ironic headline to sell the story?" She guessed. "That's the media for you."

"I don't think so." Doyle asserted, waving his hands over the multiple piles of paperwork as if he were a conductor. "There's a pattern here, yeah? A lot o' drowned bodies, and a notable lack of water."

"Don't forget about Baywatch over here." Cordelia reminded him, waving the lifeguard article in the air. "Or are you about to tell me that the Hollywood Reservoir is actually just a big, empty crater?"

"That one might not fit with the others." Doyle conceded. "But, the story's suspicious enough to raise some questions—I mean, the guy's a _lifeguard_. From Malibu. What's a guy like that doing illegally swimming in a reservoir on the other side of town, yeah?"

"Strange, but not _demons from hell_ strange." Cordelia maintained. "People do dumb things, Doyle. Even lifeguards from Malibu."

"I'm still sorting things out." Doyle acknowledged. "Not every one of these drownings fits the M.O. But, based on sheer numbers, I'd say there's a good chance we have some kind of water-based predator on our hands."

Cordelia raised her eyebrows as she scanned over some of the other documents laid out within her scope of vision, some of which were print outs from the _Demons, Demons, Demons_ database. "Well, if it turns out the Little Mermaid is a serial killer, my childhood will be ruined."

"It's probably not a mermaid." Doyle assured her, reclaiming his seat so he could refer to some of the notes he'd made on a separate piece of paper. "They're only a danger to sailors. But, I am thinking along those lines—a creature that lures people to water and then drowns 'em. A water nymph or kelpie. Maybe even Davy Jones himself." He sat back, and a furrow fell across his brow. "Only thing that doesn't add up is the part where the water disappears afterwards. Nothing I've read mentions any being with that specific power."

Seeing how serious Doyle was taking the situation and knowing her chances of going back to sleep were slim, Cordelia sighed and then trudged around the cluttered coffee table to sink into the couch cushions. "Okay, it's hard to process all this without caffeine, but let's say you're right and there's some _thing_ behind all these drowning incidents—where do we even start? All the victims are dead and some of these cases are so cold, they might as well be in Antarctica. I mean, if you still had the visions, that'd be one thing..."

She trailed off, biting on her lip uneasily. Doyle knew it was because she had thoughtlessly mentioned the visions. She rarely pointed out their absence—or their former usefulness, for that matter—and he supposed he knew why. She was relieved they were gone, as Doyle himself had been up until very recently.

Now he found himself more conflicted.

_If he still had his visions, maybe some of these people would still be alive._

"We start here." Doyle told her, passing a recent newspaper to Cordelia and giving the front page a decisive tap. "April McCoy. Accused of drowning her two-and-half year old son. Claims the boy had been asleep for hours—drowned right there in his bed. The authorities think she's had some sorta mental break, blocking out the trauma of doing the deed herself. But if she's telling the truth, she could be the closest thing we have to a witness."

Cordelia began to rapidly scan the disturbing article, her face souring the more she read. "Have you considered possession?" She asked, folding the paper and placing it atop the rest of the articles on the coffee table. She looked as if she was going to be sick. "We both know how powerful that can be."

"Possession." Doyle echoed, reaching for a pen. "I hadn't even considered that."

"That's exactly my point." Cordelia replied. "There's _a lot_ to consider. This thing could be spiritual or corporeal. Demonic or even… human."

"So, what? You're saying we shouldn't even bother?" Doyle wondered with a disappointed frown.

"No, I'm saying there's a lot of ground to cover. And there's no way, you and I can do it alone." Cordelia clarified, rising decisively from the couch and padding across the carpeted room toward the bathroom. "So, let's get our butts to the office and make the rest of the team earn their paychecks!"


	12. Habeas Corpses, Part 2

**A/N - Happy 20 years of Angel! Okay, so the actual 20 year anniversary is tomorrow, but I'm posting this chapter on the eve of said anniversary (because tomorrow is Saturday and who has time to post on a Saturday?). I am terribly sorry for the delay since the last chapter. Life, excuses, blah, blah, blah. I worked super hard to get a chapter done in time to properly acknowledge the anniversary and originally I was going to write something special and anniversary-centric. Ah, best laid plans. I'm afraid, this chapter isn't particularly special or anniversary-related in any way. It's just the mid-way point of this rather procedural episode I cooked up. Anyway, members of the original cast (minus David) will be convening at NYCC to celebrate the milestone. Hopefully, it will be a nice walk down memory lane for all of us. (And yes, I will be sure to keep writing and writing and writing...)**

* * *

**3\. ****Habeas Corpses, Part 2**

Doyle gazed down at the multitude of white and red lights streaming through the grid of Los Angeles. It was a wonder anyone could get from point A to point B in this city without losing their mind in the process. The non-stop traffic, the honking, the swerving—L.A. driving was not for the faint of heart.

From his current perch several stories above, Doyle found the chaos and din oddly comforting. Perhaps, that was because it was predictable. And lately, not many other things were.

It had been many months since Doyle had lost his ability to glimpse the future, and up until fairly recently he'd relished every moment of his freedom. No more headaches, no more weight on his shoulders. No more big cosmic responsibility, aside from that which he chose. No more regrets (for the most part).

Being vision-free had felt like a new beginning—he was a new man with a new life. One where he could go away on a lengthy vacation, reconnect with his family overseas and, most importantly, marry the woman he loved. One where the past was the past and the future was unwritten.

But, the future _had_ been written. And he'd been the dummy that wrote it!

"Hey." Angel had stealthily arrived on the Hyperion rooftop, adding himself to the growing list of unpredictable factors in Doyle's visionless life.

"Hey, yourself." Doyle responded, turning only slightly to acknowledge the friend that now joined him in his private refuge. Angel had been conspicuously absent from the hotel since the previous evening. "Where'd ya slink off to? Hope it wasn't anywhere that required backup. Or, anywhere yours truly would've appreciated, for that matter."

Leaning his arms against the retaining wall, Angel gazed down at the same scenery Doyle had previously been admiring. "I went to check on Connor." He replied in a muted tone. "After the spell... I needed to see if he was okay."

"And is he?" Doyle asked, knowing the answer had to be yes, or Angel wouldn't be standing beside him calmly taking in the view.

"He's doing great." Angel responded, the hint of a smile creeping over his otherwise unreadable expression. "Walking now."

"Is that right?" Doyle commented, raising his eyebrows with admiration. "They grow up fast, yeah?"

"They do." Angel agreed, slightly more subdued.

"Sorry, man. I know it must be hard." Doyle backtracked, wishing he could give Angel something more profound than meaningless apologies.

The truth was, Doyle wasn't sorry. He couldn't be sorry. Not when Connor's safety was the only thing keeping the proverbial cork in the apocalyptic bottle.

"He looked happy. That makes it easier." Angel replied evenly, his gaze still locked onto the sea of cars below. "Did I miss anything?"

"Now that ya mention it..." Doyle declared, swiveling around so he could lean his back against the support wall that traced the rooftop. "I've got some good news and some bad news."

Angel's kneejerk response came as little surprise. "What's the bad news?"

Folding his arms over his chest, Doyle acquiesced. "There's a new player in town, who as it turns out, isn't new at all. An unidentified aquatic entity's made L.A. its hunting ground for the better part of a year. Easy to miss, if it weren't for the fact that many of its victims managed to drown on dry land."

"Sounds like our kind of case." Angel agreed. "Not to mention, we could really use one."

"Yeah, that's another bit o' bad news." Doyle added. "Turns out, our dry spell isn't for lack of hopeless souls in need o' saving. Those souls are being incentivized to look elsewhere. Or threatened, is more like it. Give ya one guess as to who's been doing the threatening."

"I don't need to guess." Angel noted dryly.

"Certainly explains why Wesley's business has been booming while ours goes belly up." Doyle elaborated. "Cruella de Vil's been killing two birds—er, puppies with one… coat? Sorry, that analogy kinda got away from me."

"What's the good news?" Angel wondered with a resigned sigh.

"Ah… well, the good news was supposed to be that we got ourselves a case." Doyle answered. "I probably should've led with that, yeah?"

Angel's head tilted downward as he chuckled wryly to himself. "So, who is this brave client willing to go against Wolfram & Hart's embargo?"

"No client, just yours truly." Doyle admitted, scratching absently at the back of his head.

"You had a vision?" Angel asked, his head lifting with interest and surprise.

"More like a hunch." Doyle hedged. "We've been working through it all day. File's downstairs. Already pretty lengthy."

"Guess I'd better get caught up." Angel commented, only the vaguest hint of curiosity lingering in his expression.

"Actually, before ya get into all that—think you can contact your guy down at the morgue? Get us a copy of the coroner's report for the Dylan McCoy case?" Doyle wondered. "Cordy and I are planning on talking to the mother, April, tomorrow morning. She's up there in Stockton—could be our best—and, frankly, _only_ lead on this thing."

"I'm on it." Angel promised.

"Thanks, man." Doyle replied, grateful to know that Angel still trusted his instincts, despite his lack of foreknowledge. "I appreciate ya following me down this particular rabbit hole."

Doyle's sincerity took Angel aback and he gave his friend a slightly closer inspection. "You okay?" He wondered. "You seem kind of… I don't know..."

"I'm fine, man." Doyle assured the other man, knowing Angel wouldn't push for more explanation than Doyle was willing to give. "I just wanna find this monster before he kills someone else."

Angel nodded, letting his concerns go. "Whatever it is, we'll find it and we'll stop it. We always do."

"Yeah." Doyle agreed absently. "Always."

* * *

The room was bright, nondescript, and smaller than Doyle had anticipated. One very miniscule barred window hung high over the lonely table planted in the center of the room. He wasn't claustrophobic in general, but in this setting he felt as if the concrete walls were moving inward, threatening to crush the air out of his lungs. He couldn't imagine what it felt like to be on the inside—living in a cell only a fraction of this size.

It made him rather glad that they specialized in supernatural cases, which typically operated outside the criminal justice system.

_Click. Unclick. Click. Unclick._

Cordelia sat beside him impatiently clicking her ballpoint pen. She was dressed in a sensible black skirt and blazer with a blue polka-dotted blouse underneath; her hair was pinned up in a poofy bun and atop her nose sat a pair of decorative spectacles. Although, they hadn't misrepresented themselves as April McCoy's attorneys, Cordelia had happily dressed the part.

On the other hand, Doyle's choice of dress was fooling no one.

_Bzzzz!_

There was a loud buzz and a click as the sole door to the room opened, and a petite woman in a bright orange jumpsuit was escorted inside by a needlessly burly prison guard. He walked her around the table and waited until she was seated before unlocking the shackles that encircled her slender wrists and ankles.

"One hour." He announced gruffly, marching to the door where another loud buzz and click signaled his departure.

As soon as the guard had left, April raised her bloodshot grey-blue eyes to reveal that one of them was nearly swollen shut. An indication that she had most likely run into some trouble with the other inmates. "I don't know you." She said guardedly, shifting her slightly obscured gaze back and forth from the well-dressed woman on her right to the Irishman on her left.

"We're with Angel Investigations." Doyle introduced them both in his most professional voice. "My name's Doyle, and this is Cordelia. We'd like to ask ya a few questions about your case, if that's alright."

"Why?" April demanded tersely. "Who hired you?"

"As much as it pains me to say it—we're working pro-bono." Cordelia spoke up, also channeling her most businesslike demeanor. "My associate here, has been following your case in the news and thinks we might be able to help you."

"No one can help me." April retorted with a bitter laugh. "Haven't you heard? I'm a monster. I must be, because there's no other explanation for what happened."

"Actually, monsters happen to be our specialty." Cordelia rebutted. "As are most things that defy explanation."

"Monsters." April repeated, letting some of her defensive steam evaporate. The straggled edges of her dishwater blond hair brushed past her shoulders. Her swollen eye blinked in the middle of her otherwise flawless, pale face. "Like… seriously?"

"Supernatural phenomenon." Doyle clarified, seeing a glimmer of interest in the damaged woman across from them. "Demons, malevolent spirits, black magic. That sorta thing."

"We track down things that go bump in the night and make sure they bump no more." Cordelia agreed, giving her pen another _click_ and holding it poised over a crisp, blank page in her notebook. "So, do you still think we can't help you? Or do you have something bumpy to share?"

"Um… I'm not sure." April answered cautiously, as her gaze held on Cordelia. "It wasn't a monster, but I guess it could've been, like, a witch's spell or something."

"Okay, let's not go witch-blaming." Cordelia interjected. "One of my good friends is a witch, and aside from trying to end the world once, she's a really good person. Witches have been grossly misrepresented in the media—"

"Cordy." Doyle gently interrupted, giving a subtle nod toward the already dubious woman who they were trying to encourage to open up. "I think we can table the Wiccan rights speech for now, yeah?"

"Right. So, you think it was a spell that made you drown your son." Cordelia specified. "Would you say it felt dream-like or more of an out-of-body experience?"

April bristled, her entire body growing stiff as she recoiled from Cordelia's unintended accusations. "That's not what happened. I didn't do anything! Someone cursed him—my sweet baby, Dylan." A noticeable sheen of tears began to sparkle in her eyes at the mention of her son's name.

"Why don't we back up a bit?" Doyle suggested more tactfully, expertly paving over the potholes caused by his wife's directness. "Try telling us what happened in your own words."

"I told the police everything; they were ready to put me in a straight jacket." April sniffled, sliding her hands off the table and clasping them tightly in her lap as a stray tear escaped and rolled down her left cheek. "And you know what? Maybe I _am_ crazy. Maybe you people aren't even really here, talking about monsters and magic. I mean, _that_ is crazy!"

"We're here, Ms. McCoy." Doyle replied earnestly, hoping the kindness in his eyes would prove to her that he wasn't merely a figment of her traumatized imagination. "I know it may seem strange that we'd show up outta the blue, talking about supernatural possibilities, but… how's about we do this another way, yeah? We have a friend on the inside. If you talk to us, we can put in a good word—offer you protection."

"Who?" She asked all too quickly.

Doyle knew he had her then. This woman who was obviously already a target wouldn't survive long without protection. "Her name's Faith." He offered. "Do you know her?"

There was a kernel of intimidated recognition even before April nodded in quiet awe. "She's your… friend?"

"Well, Doyle's her friend." Cordelia clarified. "I'm more of a former almost-victim."

"She will protect you." Doyle reiterated, disregarding Cordelia's pithy aside. "If I ask her to."

April wiped her palm across her cheek, disposing of a single stray tear that had broken free. "I gave Dylan his bath that night, just like I did every night." She began telling her story in a well-practiced voice that was laced with an undercurrent of emotion. "He was laughing and splashing. He loved the water."

Both Doyle and Cordelia remained silent as April spoke. The only movement was the flick of Cordelia's wrist as she quietly jotted a few notes on her pad.

"We finished at about… seven? Maybe seven-thirty." April continued as she began nervously rubbing her damp palm against her knee. "I brought him into his room, put him in his pajamas; we read his favorite book, _Goodnight, Moon_. And he was so sleepy, he went right to bed. I guess I should have known something was off—he never wanted to go to sleep, you know? He'd usually stall for hours trying to get me to stay and read more stories. But, not that night. I kissed him goodnight and left the room. I tried to watch a movie, but I was tired, too. I fell asleep on the couch and woke up a few hours later. That's when I found him…"

"What woke you up?" Doyle questioned. "Was there a sound? A shift in temperature?"

April paused and considered the question for a moment. A slight shake of her head preceded her answer. "I don't know. A stiff neck maybe? It was late and I was half-asleep."

"And you went to check on Dylan." Doyle surmised.

"I always do." April agreed, her voice catching slightly as she recalled the awful moment. "He was there, in his bed."

"Could ya tell right away that he wasn't breathing?" Doyle gently probed.

"H-he couldn't breathe." She gasped, as her face became a mask of terror. "There was so much water! It was pouring out of him, like a faucet—his nose, his mouth. I-I tried turning him over, but it didn't help. And then CPR—I nearly choked trying. It was no use. There was too much."

The distraught mother bowed her head and shuddered with sobs, allowing Doyle and Cordelia to exchange glances unnoticed. Cordelia looked dumbfounded as she turned her horror-stricken eyes in Doyle's direction. She arched a dismayed brow, silently questioning Doyle's opinion of the woman's tale. He responded with an uncertain shake of his head.

This wasn't what he'd expected to hear. Not that he'd known _what_ to expect. But, whatever he had been expecting to discover in this woman's heartbreaking story, it certainly wasn't this.

Cordelia subtly waved a tissue in Doyle's direction, using only her eyeballs to instruct him to take the item and offer it to the weeping woman sniveling across from them.

"Ah…" He opened his mouth before he knew what to say, and the distraught woman raised her head expectantly, her face was flushed and soaked with tears. "I'm sorry," was all that managed to roll off Doyle's tongue as he passed the tissue across the table.

April took it, but didn't bother to wipe her face, "Have you ever heard of this happening before? Do you know what it is?!"

"Well… not exactly. But there's any number of entities that could have this kind o' power." Doyle responded with reservation. "Poltergeists, for one. Did ya recently move? Or have a history of strange occurrences on the property?"

"No, my ex and I rented that apartment when we first got married." April answered, as she finally wiped at her damp face. "Dylan's lived there his whole life."

"Have you received any threats?" Doyle continued. "Know of anyone who might be holding a grudge against you?"

"No." April replied. "I don't think so."

"What about your ex?" Cordelia jumped in. "Are you on good terms?"

"We try to keep things civil." April responded with a noncommittal shrug. There was a slight pause as if something new occurred to her. She considered the thought as she rolled the tissue around in her fingertips anxiously. "Lately he's been flakey about his scheduled visits. Blaming his work, which is a total lie—he works on a diving boat off Catalina, and it's not exactly prime diving season. Anyway, we had a pretty big fight when he missed his last pick up. Dylan was so disappointed—I just couldn't let it go."

Cordelia paused and gave Doyle a pointed look before aggressively jotting something in her notes. "Do you know where we can find him?"

"It wasn't him, if that's what you're thinking." April corrected, as her eyes followed Cordelia's rapidly moving pen. "Todd may not be the world's greatest dad, but he would never do anything to hurt Dylan. Besides, he doesn't know anything about magic. He wouldn't even let me get a tarot reading back in college. He thinks it's make-believe."

"Perhaps, he doth protest too much." Cordelia argued. "You'd be surprised how many barely-average Joe's dabble in the dark arts. Classic overcompensating. I wish they would just stick to buying overpriced sports cars, but nooooo. Gotta summon a demon from hell to prove you're not a gigantic loser."

Noticing a visible stiffening of April's spine, Doyle steered the questioning away from her ex. "It probably has nothing to do with the boy's father." He reassured her. "But, it's our job to follow all leads, no matter how unlikely they seem. Is there anything else you can think of that may help us? Anyone we should talk to? A suspicious neighbor, or the like?"

April stared hard at Doyle with an unreadable expression that he found more than a little unsettling. Finally her shoulders softened and she sank back into her chair. "There is someone you should probably look at…"

* * *

"The autopsy confirms it was a drowning." Angel read from the coroner's report he'd successfully obtained. "The lungs were completely filled. No signs of struggle. No ligature marks. Nothing of note aside from the fact that when authorities arrived, the boy was unresponsive on the floor of his bedroom, dressed in wet pajamas." He finished reading and let the photocopied page flutter onto the tabletop around which his co-workers had all congregated.

"That fits with April's version of events." Doyle remarked, sliding his hand forward to pull the report closer and review the information first-hand.

"Also fits if she drowned him herself and put him there." Gunn pointed out.

"It supports either theory." Angel agreed, folding his arms over his chest and directing his next question across the table to the detractor. "What did you find at April's apartment?"

"Nice place." Gunn offered. "Security was decent. The super was a weird dude—gave us a tour of the place like it was Disneyland—kept talking about how much money there is in 'dark tourism.'"

"He's not wrong about that." Doyle said. "Y'know there's a bus ride you can take right here in L.A. Drives by the site where they found The Black Dahlia. And another one for the Manson murders."

"Ew." Cordelia interjected, fluttering her eyelashes with disgust and then paused, reconsidering her reaction. "Wait. How much do you think someone would pay to spend a night in a murder hotel?"

"Gunn." Angel prompted the big man to continue, while simultaneously cutting off Cordelia's latest moneymaking epiphany.

"The guy was home the night it happened—probably home most nights, by the looks of him. He said everything was quiet 'til the ambulance showed up." Gunn explained with a shrug. "Even sold us a copy of the security footage for twenty bucks. Claims we can see right into April's window."

"Can we?" Angel asked doubtfully, turning his focus to Fred who was wholly focused on the screen of her laptop.

"Technically, we can see a window that looks into her apartment." Fred replied, scrunching up her nose as she continued to stare at the black and white video occupying her screen. "But, there's nothing visible inside."

"What about outside?" Angel queried.

"More nothing." Fred affirmed, finally lifting her eyes away from the screen with mounting concern. "Or rather no _one_. There isn't a living soul on this tape. Doesn't that seem odd? A complex of 12 units and not one person came home or went out between prime commuting and dinnertime hours?"

"And you know that super ain't eating nothing that don't come from a take-out box." Gunn gibed.

"You don't even see the paramedics go by." Fred continued with a disappointed frown, sitting back and pressing a key to pause the video at the end of its loop. "It's a total rip off."

"Someone doctored the tape." Doyle concluded, grasping at the one straw he was presented with, no matter how flimsy.

"I don't think so." Fred added skeptically. "There are no blips or alteration of the time-code."

"So it's supernatural, then. A cloaking spell maybe?" Doyle pressed, leading himself willfully down the least logical path.

An apologetic half smile flitted to Fred's lips, "I was thinking more like it's a back entrance that no one ever uses. A way for that greedy super to make a few bucks off easy marks like us."

Doyle took that in, nodding in noticeable disappointment. Cordelia arched her brow in her husband's direction but reserved comment for the moment.

"We already knew there weren't any witnesses." Angel pointed out, trying to focus on the business at hand, rather than Doyle's obvious investment in said business. Turning his focus to Cordelia's end of the table, he carried on, "What did we get on the ex-husband?"

"Only that he might be dating a witch." Cordelia announced begrudgingly from her place in the circle.

"A witch?" Angel questioned. "Are you sure? That sounds—"

"Very Arthur Miller." Cordelia huffed.

"I was gonna say suspicious." Angel concluded.

"I know." Cordelia unhappily agreed. "I spent the better part of my day staking out Todd McCoy's apartment building, and getting to know his live-in girlfriend, Miss Ivy Simpson, in the process. If you have another theory as to why a 'professional dog-walker' would have large quantities of Mandrake root delivered to her doorstep, I'm all ears."

"Okay, so she's probably a witch." Angel concurred. "Doesn't mean she's guilty of murder."

"Unless you also take into account that she's the reason Todd divorced April in the first place." Cordelia added.

"That's not entirely true." Doyle reminded her. "The way April told it, they were already separated when, ah… Ivy, entered the picture."

"Oh, right. I forgot. The _real_ reason they broke up is because Todd is an emotionally stunted man-child." Cordelia corrected herself facetiously. "No sooner had April given him the happy news about their impending bundle of joy, than he became a completely different person than the one she married. Working longer hours; never available—emotionally or otherwise. The icing on the divorce-cake was when he started sleeping with one of his clients. Oh, and did I mention that he's a _diving instructor_? As in, a water-based profession. As in Todd and Ivy met in the water!"

"There are definitely a lot of red flags there." Angel noted, running his hand thoughtfully over his chin. "And confirmation that someone with a working knowledge of magic lives in Todd McCoy's apartment. We should approach with extreme caution."

"Those of us who need to breathe anyway." Doyle quipped.

"Lucky for us, one of us doesn't need to." Angel responded. "Everyone else—see if there's any connection between our suspects and the other cases. So far, this seems personal, but let's not forget the big picture."

All eyes turned simultaneously to look at the literal "big picture," which was a collage of news clippings taped to their white board, peppered with smiling faces of the other victims.


End file.
